


Satellite

by Liralen



Series: Celestial Bodies [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Breathplay, Face Slapping, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis's grin is bright and white and his hand is snaking down into the waist of Liam's trousers, doing something to make him groan. Louis's hand moves and Liam's body twists, curling in, his forehead falling down onto Zayn's knee, and it burns Zayn the possibility of the moment: the weight of Liam's head on his leg and everything it could mean if he wanted it to. If he were bold enough to take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satellite

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who read early scenes from this and cheered me on, although for a long time I was sure it wouldn't exist, and to the mods of this community, who not only host this amazing affair, but who emailed me back when I considered dropping out right before the rough draft was due and said, "You don't have many words to go! We can find a posting date that gives you time to finish!"
> 
> Special thanks and a million cuddles to my extraordinary beta **shinywhimsy** , who held my hand every step and made sense of my own thoughts when I couldn't. Without her this fic would absolutely not exist.
> 
> Fanmix by **thediamondskies** available here: [**Orion's Belt**](http://8tracks.com/luckyhorans/orion-s-belt). You should all go listen to it because it's sexy as hell.

"I think it's just, you know, being kids, we know what it's like to be at school, and it's just, there's just...sometimes there's mean kids at school and whatnot. And like, when you play sport, there's often like a certain level of like, banter, where you kind've have fun with each other, but you can't ever let it go too far, sort of thing, 'cause sometimes it is upsetting."

Liam's smiling as he says it, gaze meeting the camera steadily for the first time since he's sat down. He lets out a weak, awkward laugh, hands twisted together between his knees, then turns his face away again, managing to avoid all three cameras set in a ring around him. "I mean, I wasn't actually a very good goalkeeper when I was at school. I think it's just one of them things, really, that…you know, we've all experienced bullying and been around bullying as kids, so it's something we wanted to help out with."

The director asks a question that will be edited out later - something about why Liam chose 'true' as his inspirational word. Zayn's heart clenches when Liam ducks his head and rubs his hands over his arms, giving a quick shrug. "Well, I think in any situation it's important to be truthful, so, I mean, that one's quite easy. But being brave, I mean…sometimes, you know, you just need to have the courage to, you know, pluck up to say something."

He's having even more trouble facing the camera now, gaze sweeping the ground, unfocused, as his hand tightens around his bicep. "Like, you know, even if it's not you's being bullied, or even if it _is_ you being bullied," and Zayn doesn't think he's imagining the way Liam's voice catches there, "you know, you just got to have the courage to say something, and if you don't think something's right you gotta, you gotta talk about it."

"Cut!" the director says, standing up from the camera and offering Liam a smile. "Thank you, Liam, that was great, that's all we need."

The moment Liam's done filming, he walks off the set and straight to where Louis's waiting with his arms open. Zayn and the other boys press close to Liam's back and sides, and Zayn feels a brief sting of worry that Liam will be overwhelmed, but he seems grateful for it, if not a little bewildered.  
  
"I'm okay," he says, and looks surprised when it comes out a whisper. He clears his throat and tries again, steadier this time. "You guys, I'm fine."

"No one expects you to be fine," Zayn says, soft into the curve of Liam's cheek, Liam's face mostly hidden in Louis's neck. Zayn's fitted close against Liam's back, and Harry and Niall are sort of hovering nearby, unable to get very close but reaching in to touch Liam where they can, Niall's hand on Liam's waist, Harry's fingers sifting through his hair. They don't say anything, just silently offer their presence and their touch, and for about the ten thousandth time Zayn offers a silent prayer of thanks for the day that Simon Cowell put them all together.

"I am fine though," Liam says, with a nervous little laugh that sounds too much like the one he just filmed, faked and fractured. Louis shifts a little to look over Liam's shoulder and meet Zayn's eyes. Zayn doesn't know what his own face shows, but he feels the way Louis looks, mouth tight and eyes impossibly tired and sad.

"Okay," Zayn agrees. "That's good. Do you mind if we hold on a bit longer, though, 'cause I think we all need a bit of a cuddle." He raises his voice at the last part enough for the others to hear, and Niall and Harry murmur agreement and tuck in closer. It should probably look strange from the outside, five grown boys folded into each other, pressed into a tight knot in the middle of a studio. But it's them, so everyone's used to it by now, going about their jobs without much more than a sidelong glance.

Eventually they have to disentangle, and Zayn's not the only one whose eyes are a little red. Harry actually swipes at his cheeks with the heel of his hand, offering a watery smile when Liam tuts and gives him an extra hug. Louis isn't crying, but he's staring after Liam with an almost fierce affection, like he'd like to find all the people who ever hurt Liam and tear them limb from limb, then come back with the blood still on his face and curl around him. Zayn could be projecting, because that's how _he_ feels when Liam talks about his past and the way other kids treated him, but he's pretty sure Louis would be down for that plan.

Zayn watches him closely as they finish up their work at the studio, reviewing the raw video footage and listening to the director talk about how they're going to chop some of it up and shuffle it together, the bits with their signs and some clips from the photo shoot. They autograph the signs to be auctioned later, after the ads and products have come out. Liam keeps up a cheerful face, teasing Niall for a particularly messy signature as they sign a few more items until Niall throws the sharpie cap at him and pretends to sulk so Liam will cuddle him. Liam's a good actor, Zayn thinks; most everyone around them is probably fooled. They want to be fooled, because a sad Liam Payne is almost unbearable to think about, goes against the fundamental laws of the universe.

Their eyes meet across the table as Liam finishes signing the last folder in front of him and caps his pen. He forces an ill-fitting smile across his lips when he catches Zayn looking, but Zayn isn’t fooled. Liam looks tired, wrung out and achy with too much feeling, the thin skin beneath his eyes bruised and tender. He opens his mouth, poised to say something, but then Louis comes up behind him and nudges him, and Liam twists around to talk to him, the sweet blossom of a real, genuine smile blooming on his face.

Louis leans down to whisper in Liam's ear, something that makes Liam laugh and blush at once. He darts a glance around the table, but Zayn waves him off, shoos the pair of them away with a wink and a mouthed 'go get some, bro' that makes Liam blush darker and stretches Louis's grin wide and wicked. Zayn feels happy there, in the moment, watching two of his best mates slip off together to find a quiet corner to make out like two horny teenagers (which Liam actually is, he keeps having to remind himself). He's happy they have each other: that on difficult days like this, Liam has Louis there to whisper something dirty in his ear and drag him off for a sneaky snog; to pull him back up into his body when he's spent too much time in his head; to remind him that he is beautiful, and good, and loved.

 

*

 

It's maybe why he doesn't understand, at first, what he's seeing as they're all herded into a van on the way to their hotel in Mexico City. Because he's spent the afternoon watching the two of them, Liam and Louis; not always side by side, but connected somehow even when they're mixed into a crowd, moving around with that intrinsic knowledge of where the other is, cutting glances across the room to meet in warm looks and secret smiles.

He's been watching them do it for months now, ever since Liam and Danielle called it quits for the second time and Louis picked up the pieces all over again, but put them back together differently. It's always been something of an open secret, this thing between the two of them, the dances they did around one another while everyone watched exasperated from the sidelines, waiting for them to get their act together. Zayn knew something had shifted when Louis and Eleanor broke up quietly a week before they left for Paris. Louis spent the weekend crying himself to exhaustion and then sleeping it away, but when he emerged from it he looked steadier than Zayn had expected. He knew Louis loved Eleanor, knew they'd tried hard and knew it wouldn't work anyway—suspected some of the reasons, but never asked.

His questions were good as answered days later when he caught Liam trying to sneak out of Louis's bunk, awoken by the loud thud of him hitting the ground tangled in Louis's blankets. He stared down at Liam's shocked, mortified face for a few moments, drawing it out and letting Liam work himself into a proper panic, then said, "If the two of you are gonna fuck in the bunks, we're getting another bus. And then you're taking Niall on it with you, because I'm sick of having to listen to all the damn hentai he watches while he wanks."

"Hear, hear," he heard Harry mumble faintly under the sounds of Liam's indignant sputtering and Louis's cackling laughter.

That was the most they ever addressed it, at least to Zayn's knowledge. It's just become normal now, incorporated into their dynamic: Harry and Niall and Zayn and Louis&Liam. Zayn doesn’t know who else knows, though he assumes that those closest to them are in on it, Lou and Paul and Caroline and all the people they spend 80% of their lives around these days, because it's sort of impossible to be around for any amount of time and miss it. There's a way Louis smiles that's just for Liam, so full of fondness and delight that it occasionally makes Zayn want to be sick, but he can't even take the piss out of them for it because it's honestly lovely, how much they love each other. It's evident in everything they do, whether they're wrestling in the green room and calling each other names, or, like today, being soft with each other, trading whispers and stolen touches, Louis's hand lingering a moment too long in Liam's hair or at the small of his back when he pulls him into a hug.

That's why, Zayn thinks, it takes him so long to put the pieces together. Liam tugs out the collar of his shirt, complaining about the weak air conditioning in the van, and Zayn catches a glimpse of a bruise high up on his throat, but that’s hardly anything out of the ordinary. Louis's been leaving love bites on Liam since long before they ever got together. When he spots a few more on the other side of Liam's neck he chalks it up to Louis getting carried away and makes a mental note to tease Liam about it. He doesn't notice the pattern, the shape they form together, the way the scattered bruises on the left side of Liam's neck are not round like love bites but faint streaks. Maybe that's partly not wanting to know, maybe he should have figured it out right then, but Liam's leaned against Louis with his head on Louis's shoulder, and his smile is so _happy_. There's no artifice there, nothing to suspect.

So Zayn doesn't put it together until they pull up to the hotel and start to clamber out of the van. Liam's hunched over to duck out of the door, his t-shirt rucked up high across his back as he bends, and there's a long, dark bruise running horizontally across Liam's back, just a few centimeters below his shoulder blade. It's smudgy and turning brown, a few days old at least, and Zayn might have mistaken it for dirt or a shadow from a distance, but close behind Liam like this, it's obvious.

A cold bolt of unease shudders through Zayn. As he stumbles after Liam to the hotel, he tries to remember any accidents Liam's had recently that could account for the mark; they're all a bit rough and tumble, always knocking into things (Harry more often than most), and it's totally plausible, right, that Liam fell into something while they were rehearsing choreography. But it's a large bruise, and the edges are distinct, like whatever he hit ( _or whatever hit him_ ) was narrow and hard. Zayn can't remember anything that would account for that, and now he's remembering the marks on Liam's neck, seeing the configuration in a new way and adding it all together, and he doesn't like the sum.

He's so busy thinking that he doesn't notice when they reach the elevator and runs right into Liam. Liam cuts off a soft hiss of pain and Zayn jerks back like he's touched a hot stove, because he hit Liam right in that bruise. "I'm sorry," he apologizes shakily as Liam twists around to rub a hand over the spot.

"S'okay," he says magnanimously. "Just a bit sore, must've tweaked my back." He's smiling at Zayn, eyes happy and relaxed as he's _lying_. There are fingerprint bruises pressed into his throat, and Zayn feels like he's the one choking when the elevator doors slide closed, the mirrored walls all reflecting Liam's smile.

 

*

 

Zayn tells himself it's none of his business. He tells himself this quite firmly, many times, pacing the fat strip of sandy carpet that connects the bedroom of his hotel suite to the front door. _It's none of your business. It's none of your business. Liam is a grown man who can take care of himself, he's not a little boy that needs saving. Don't borrow trouble, Malik._

He realizes after some time that he's stopped pacing, standing still just a step from the door, close enough he could reach out and tug it open. There's a little cardstock sign dangling from the handle like there always is in hotels, only this one's in Spanish. The side facing him reads in neat, no-nonsense script NO MOLESTAR. Zayn assumes that it translates into something like _do not disturb_ , but the verb makes him nervous. He should probably hang it on the handle outside, just in case someone is lying in wait to molest him.

He opens the door, to hang the sign up, right, but his hand skips over it and he's walking across the hall to Liam's room. He keeps seeing that bruise in his mind's eye, keeps seeing the strained, shaky lines of Liam's smile as he talked about kids on the footie team giving him a hard time. Zayn wants the images to go away. Maybe it's nothing – probably it's nothing – but he'll feel better when Liam says it himself.

Liam opens the door readily at the first knock, falling back on his heels a bit and blinking for just a moment when he sees Zayn. Obviously expecting someone else. He recovers quickly, the smile returning, as warm as before. "Hey mate. What's up?"

"Nothing much," Zayn lies, and then immediately contradicts himself: "Can I come in for a minute?"

Liam hesitates, just for a second, gaze flickering over Zayn's shoulder before he shakes it off and smiles. "Of course," he says, holding the door wide and stepping aside so Zayn can follow him in. He throws another glance around the hall before letting the door swoosh shut and turning to face his guest.

"You want anything from the mini bar? A beer or something?"

Zayn shakes his head, pausing a moment before sitting down on the sofa. "Nah, I'm good," he says.

"Are you sure?" Liam persists. "They've got León! I remember you liked that last time we were here. D'you remember that? You all got drunk in the hotel because we'd had that trouble in Detroit, and no one bothered to check the drinking age until we left, and Louis was so mad when he found out it was only—"

"Liam," Zayn cuts him off, because Liam will nervous-babble them into the next morning if Zayn doesn't stop him.

Liam seems to wilt, all at once, his hand falling from the door of the mini-fridge to hang by his side, slightly curled and empty. His head drops, and he takes in a slow breath through his nose that Zayn can hear. When he lets it out he lifts his head to meet Zayn's eyes again, and there's something in him that seems steadier, more solid that the anxious fluttering of a moment ago.

"Yeah," Liam says, not quite like a question, but tipping his head at Zayn like he's waiting for him to ask. Given the opening he'd been looking for, Zayn finds himself abruptly at a loss for words.

"I…I'm not sure how to say this," he admits honestly.

"It's all right." Liam squares his shoulders like he's readying himself to take a punch. It makes Zayn's stomach hurt. "Just say it."

They meet gazes intensely, Liam looking nearly as uncomfortable as Zayn feels but neither willing to back away from the moment. It's silent for a handful of moments as they wait – Liam for the question, Zayn for courage—nothing disturbing the quiet until the air conditioning roars to life. Liam startles, then laughs at himself, and Zayn feels a smile shape his own mouth, giving him the flash of normalcy he needs to ask.

"Where did you get that bruise on your back?"

Liam's smile fades, leveling out into a serious look, but he doesn't seem angry. He looks mostly embarrassed, hand rising to palm the back of his neck, squeeze at the achy spots. "Yeah. Yeah, I kind of—I kind of thought that might be what this was about. When you bumped into me," he says in response to Zayn's inquiring hum. "I could see it in your eyes, something, anyway. You're not as mysterious and hard to read as you think."

"Apparently not. Guess I'm gonna have to hand that title to you," Zayn says without really thinking, and watches Liam's face fall.

"I wasn't trying," he says softly. "I wasn't trying to be mysterious or to—to hide anything, Zayn. It's just, well." His cheeks take on the gentlest blush of color. "It's private, innit? And no one was asking."

"I'm asking now," Zayn says. Flicks his gaze over Liam's face, down his chest where he's got his arms folded defensively in front of him, back up to the bruises on his neck, appearing darker in the deep wells of shadow the standing lamp casts beneath Liam's jaw. Says on a rush of recklessness, "It's Louis, isn't it, Louis did that to you. Your back, and your neck." Liam untucks a hand to bring it to his throat, the color climbing higher in his face. "He hurt you. Liam, _why_. You've got to tell me, I don't understand."

"He didn't," Liam protests immediately, only stopping and shaking his head when Zayn cuts him a withering look. "Okay, yes, I mean— _technically_ , he hurt me, but not in any way I didn't allow him to."

"You shouldn’t allow him to hurt you in any way, and if you do, he still shouldn't _do it!_ "

"It isn't like that," Liam says, sounding vaguely horrified. "God, Zayn, is that really—it isn't like that at all. It's complicated."

"Try and explain it."

Liam's hand trembles as if he'd like to fold it into a fist, but instead he carefully smoothes the fold in the collar of his shirt. "It's just something we do, sometimes. People do things, all right, it isn't weird." Liam says it stiffly, like he isn't quite comfortable with the words, and Zayn can hear them in Louis's voice: _It's okay, it isn't weird._ "I like it. Sometimes. Sometimes I, like. Need it."

Zayn stares, blankly uncomprehending. "You need Louis to hurt you."

Liam's pink cheeks darken into a full-on blush, but he nods. "Yeah, I guess… Yeah."

"I—" Zayn stops, swallowing. Shakes his head like he's shaking water from his ears, and when he's done he'll have his equilibrium back. But when he finishes Liam's still looking at him, and everything is the same. "Okay. Right. Well, I'm… I'm gonna head back and go to bed, then. Thanks."

"Oh. Right," Liam says, a fragile soap bubble of disappointment clinging to his voice, thin-skinned and ready to burst. "Are we…are we okay?"

The hour and the words and the worry press down on Zayn, crushing the narrow space between his ribs and his heart. He searches what's left of him for a smile, doesn't bother to fit it on right, too tired to make the corners stick. "'Course we’re okay," he tells Liam, knowing neither one of them believes it. "Get some sleep, yeah? Night, Li."

Liam's answering smile twists bitter and sad. "Yeah," he answers softly, drifting the words across the distance between the place he's standing and Zayn's retreating back, "good night."

 

*

 

"Lou, you got a minute?"

It's not a question so much as a command, softened for politeness' sake, and it isn't lost on Louis. His body stills under the sharp edge in Zayn's voice, the firm hand Zayn's curled around his shoulder. His eyes rake over Zayn head-to-toe before meeting his gaze, and Zayn can't read anything in them except caution.

"Of course, Zaynie," Louis replies, cheerful enough. "Always a spare moment for you. Come ravage the vending machine with me, I'm dying for a packet of those jam biscuits."

They don't talk again until they're alone in the hallway and Louis's feeding change into the machine, cursing when he mixes up the coins and ends up using a fistful of nickels instead of quarters. He fishes the bag of raspberry thumbprints out of the bottom of the machine and tears into it, popping a few into his mouth with a happy noise.

"So," he says, carefully casual, leaning his shoulders back against the wall, "what's up?"

Zayn's been thinking about it for a couple of days. Obsessing, really, ever since Liam got out of that van in Mexico City and he saw the mark across his back, the smudgy fingerprint bruises disappearing into the low scoop of the shirt. He's thought about little else since then, but he still hasn't found an elegant way to ask the question, so he just says it bluntly the same way he did to Liam: "His back."

"His back." Louis tilts his head thoughtfully. Zayn's afraid that he's going to play dumb, make Zayn spell it out, but he just looks at Zayn steadily for a moment, licking shortbread crumbs from the tips of his fingers, before asking calmly, "What do you want to know?"

"Why?" Zayn asks. "I want to know why."

"You already talked to Liam," Louis says, a faint lilt of question to his tone—not like he's unsure of the answer, but like he doesn't understand what he's doing here if Zayn and Liam have already spoken. Zayn doesn't respond, just watches Louis until he starts to fidget, which never takes long. "Did he explain? About the—about why he had them?"

"He told me how he got the bruises, yeah. And the scratches," Zayn answers.

Louis colors a little, but he doesn't look away. "But did he _explain?_ " he presses. "About—us? What we—what it's like?"

Zayn takes a moment to answer that, caught up in the memory of Liam's flushed cheeks, his quickened breath as he tried to put it into words. "He did, yeah. He said enough."

"Then why are you still angry?"

"Because _what the hell_ , Louis?" Zayn snaps, loud and sharp enough to make Louis flinch a little before he sets himself, mouth thinned into a line. "I don't care what he says, or what he thinks it is the two of you are doing, how could you? How could you do that to him?"

Louis's mouth is pinched tight, eyes bright with it, but his words, when he forces them out, are almost soft. "You should."

Zayn blinks, thrown. "What?"

"You should care," Louis says, carefully, if not quite calmly. He crumples up the empty snack bag and tosses it in the bin, dusting his hands off on his thighs before looking up again to meet Zayn's gaze. "You should care what he tells you, and what he thinks."

"That's not—you know that's not what I meant."

"I think it is, actually. It may not be what you meant to say, but it's what you feel. And you should care what he says, and what he thinks, and what he wants."

"What he thinks he wants. What _you_ want," Zayn says, feeling his mouth pull in a sneer. "What you're doing to him, Lou—"

"I don't do anything _to_ him," Louis interrupts. "I do things _with_ him. That's how sex works."

"That isn't sex. It's—I don't even _know_ what it is."

Louis rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest; fully in 'I-don't-have-time-for-your-nonsense' mode.  "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know that anything that left bruises like that had to hurt," Zayn snaps back. "I know you're hurting someone who's already had enough of it in his life. Who just might have had enough to believe he deserves it."

All the air seems to vanish with Zayn's words. The hallway falls eerily quiet, only the droning hum of the ice machine filling the space between them. Louis looks stunned, robbed of speech, the surprise and—fuck, _hurt_ , so naked on his face that Zayn feels instantly, reflexively sorry, has to bite his own lip to keep the apology from spilling out.

"Is that—" Louis's voice cracks, and he has to stop, carefully clear his throat. The arms across his chest don't look defiant, suddenly; instead, he looks like he's holding himself together. "Is that what you think I'm doing?" he asks in a soft voice. "You think I'm punishing him? Or helping him punish himself?" A note of trepidation creeps into his voice. "Is that what he told you?"

"No…" Zayn answers uncertainly. "Not really. I mean, he didn't—he tried, but it didn't make much sense? Louis—"

"You think I would hurt him." Louis still sounds shocked, _betrayed_ even, and it isn't fair. Zayn rubs a palm over his face, cursing in frustration. How did this go so quickly from chewing Louis out to feeling like he needs to comfort him?

"You _are_ hurting him," he points out in the most reasonable tone he can manage. "Christ, Louis, I saw his back. I saw his _throat_. You left bruises."

"When you get a tattoo, it leaves a scar," Louis says. "It hurts bad enough to scar beneath the ink. Is that abuse? Have we all been masochists?"

"That's different," Zayn argues, "you know it's different."

"Not as different as you might think," Louis says softly. He isn't looking at Zayn, gaze directed at a spot high over his head. He rolls his lips into his mouth, silent, thoughtful. Then he nods.

"We should talk," he says. Before Zayn can make a sarcastic remark about how they're already talking, without apparent success, he adds, "The three of us. All together. Come by my room tonight, after the show."

"The others…?" Zayn asks, although he thinks he knows the answer.

"No," Louis says. "Just you, and me, and Liam. I'll ask him if he's comfortable with that—" he levels Zayn with a pointed look— "but if I don't say anything different before the show, come over." He hesitates for a moment, gaze flicking down the length of Zayn's body. "Give us a chance to shower first. You should do the same, actually—it could be a long discussion, and we should all be comfortable."

"Right," Zayn agrees faintly, wondering if there's anything _less_ comfortable than sitting down with two of your best mates to discuss their potentially abusive sex life. "I'll be there."

He turns to leave, but hesitates. It still doesn't feel right between them, the air all weird and charged. "Lou, you know I didn't mean—"

"Don't," Louis cuts him off swiftly. He shakes his head. His voice is softer when it comes again, but his face is still shuttered, all the walls up and locked firmly into place. "Just don't. Tonight."

 

*

 

The rest of the day is taken up with rehearsal, pre-show napping, dinner, and finally hair and makeup. It feels tense to Zayn, but it might just be in his head. Louis's been no more obnoxious or snarky than usual (which is quite a lot, if he's honest), and if Zayn looks up now and then and catches Liam watching him, well, that's normal, innit?

He keeps waiting for Louis to approach him, to call it off, say Liam isn't comfortable or it isn't necessary, or that Zayn just needs to get the fuck over it and mind his own business. Louis never does. It's not until they're under the stage, waiting in the muggy darkness for the platforms to rise, that Zayn accepts that Louis's not changed his mind and he's not going to.

He tries to push it from his thoughts then and throw himself into the show, but it keeps sneaking back in during quiet moments: breaks between songs when Niall's talking, or Harry's telling the worst joke, or they're reading Twitter questions. He can't help thinking about it when Louis and Liam are stood together doing their dumb bit during _She's Not Afraid_ , Liam's arm around Louis's shoulders, microphone resting against his mouth as he refuses once again to say 'door', makes a trumpeting elephant sound instead. They've done it about a hundred times now, but Liam still laughs, expression lit up and suffused with joy.

It doesn't make any sense. Zayn's seen the bruises, and he's seen Liam's face when he talks about what happened to him in school, the way he gets restless and can't meet anyone's eyes. None of it adds up to how he's looking at Louis, or how Louis's looking at him, soft and fond and _intimate_ like they aren't on stage in front of thousands of people. Zayn wants to shout at them, wants to throw something, and he doesn't understand anything, the look in their eyes or the marks on Liam's skin or the way it makes his own skin itch.

 

*

 

They escape immediately after the show to the hotel, a massive, gaudy thing closer to Miami than to Sunrise, but well worth the short trip on the bus to reach it. They'll be staying there for a few days, remarkably, a welcome break from the bus and the hectic schedule of life on the road.

It's supposed to be an early night; they've a few days off before their next show, and they all plan to head out to explore Miami tomorrow, see what trouble they can get into at sun-bathed beaches and slick exclusive clubs. Even Harry doesn't make noises about going out tonight, just waves goodnight and disappears into his room looking ready to drop. Zayn thinks he should probably feel that tired, and he does, in ways—in the heaviness of his legs, the soreness in his throat, the dull pound of a headache deep behind his eyes. But there's a competing energy, like too many cups of coffee and cigarettes consumed back to back, buzzing through his veins and sharpening his brain, leaving him dry-eyed and wide awake even after he's spent a good 20 minutes standing under the shower trying to wash it away.

It's edging on toward one o'clock when Zayn pulls on track bottoms and a t-shirt and heads bare-footed to Louis's door. Louis opens at the first knock, like he's been waiting ( _of course he's been waiting_ ), and nods Zayn inside. Zayn hesitates, just for a moment, as if—as if _bracing_ himself for whatever happens, whatever he finds inside. The moment passes, and he feels nothing but silly, moving twice as fast to make up for it.

The door clicking shut behind him doesn't make him flinch; that would be stupid.

Liam's stretched out comfortably on the nearest bed, propped up against the headboard and flipping through TV channels. He waves casually as Zayn settles down on the squishy hotel sofa, smiling, but it's a little too quick and sharp-edged to be normal. It's probably not very nice, but Zayn feels weirdly reassured that Liam is uncomfortable as he is.

Louis settles next to Liam on the bed, and Liam sits up properly, muting the TV and setting the remote control aside. He glances at Louis with a question in his eyes, and they proceed to have a whole conversation in front of Zayn without saying a word.

"Right," Zayn drawls slowly. "Well, good talk."

"Don't be a bitch," Louis says easily, gaze still locked on Liam. He reaches up and cups a small hand around Liam's jaw. Liam shivers lightly when Louis's thumb drags over his bottom lip, and Zayn watches, fighting not to swallow or look away. "It's not an easy thing to put into words."

"This was your idea," Zayn points out. He folds his arms across his chest. It feels awkward almost immediately, and he unfolds them again, leaning forward and bracing them on his thighs instead. "Look, if you want me to—"

"We thought it might be easier," Louis talks over him, cutting him off. He pauses, tilting his head at Liam; after a moment Liam nods and closes his eyes. Louis smiles and continues. "We thought it might be easier to show you."

There's a rushing sound that Zayn distantly recognizes as his own heart, the blood pushing through his veins, flooding his brain with oxygen until he's dizzy. His tongue sticks when he speaks, trying to force the strained note from the words.

"Just so we're clear, you mean—" He stops and makes a face. "What do you mean, actually? What do you want me to see?"

"As much as you need to be convinced that Liam's safe with me." Zayn picks up the hard, bitter edge to Louis's words. Evidently Liam has as well, because he inclines his body toward Louis, somehow giving the impression of opening to him without really moving at all. His lips press gently to Louis's palm, the fleshy pad just below his thumb, and Louis's gaze softens. "As much as you need to be reassured. Whether that's a minute or an hour is up to you."

Louis's attention shifts to Zayn, and beneath the mix of emotion and heat there's a sparkle of humor. "You don't have to watch us fuck," he says casually, like Zayn's heart hasn't seized up in his chest. "But you can. If you ask me, I'd have to recommend it. He's very pretty when he's begging to come."

Liam's whole face flushes a deep, sudden pink. Zayn wants to paint it, wants to find the exact proportion of white to red in Liam's embarrassment.

"Is that okay with you?" Zayn asks carefully. He wonders if maybe he should be asking Louis, if that's how this works, but then, that would defeat the whole purpose of tonight.

Louis lifts his brows at Liam in question, and Liam nods. "Yeah," he says, eyes still locked on Louis.

Louis shakes his head. "He didn't ask me, love. Look at Zayn when you're answering him." He taps his thumb against Liam's full mouth. "And be polite."

The color in Liam's cheeks deepens, but he shifts his gaze to Zayn and says clearly, "Yeah, that's okay with me, thank you."

It's the first time Liam's looked at him since he walked in. Zayn doesn't know what he expected to see: shame, embarrassment, worry, maybe even fear. There are bits of those mixed up in the look, nervousness the easiest to read, but even that is drowned out by the dark weight of sheer arousal in Liam's eyes.

His pupils are already dilated, blown wide and dark in the dim light of the twin bedside lamps. His blush has brought a rush of warmth to his face, and there's a light gleam of sweat just at his scalp, where the hair is short and soft. Just looking at him makes Zayn's cock throb uncomfortably, and he has to force himself to swallow.

"Okay," he says. "Then I'm ready."

Zayn moves from the couch to the other bed so he can see them better, watching the long, elegant lines of their bodies as Louis curls a hand around the back of Liam's neck and pulls him into a deep kiss. This much he's seen before, because Louis isn't shy about snogging Liam when it's just the five of them, hauling him in for quick, messy kisses on the bus or in the green room before a show. Zayn suspects he does it sometimes just for the way Liam will protest and blush before giving in, ears burning pink when Niall boos and throws crisp bags at them until they break apart.

This kiss is not like the ones Zayn's seen. Liam doesn't struggle for a second; the moment Louis touches him, he goes pliant, falling to his back with the lightest push so that Louis can throw a leg over him and straddle his thighs. His cheeks are still pink, but Zayn can't tell if it's more from embarrassment or arousal as Louis licks into his mouth, biting softly a few times at his bottom lip before tilting his head and pushing the kiss abruptly deeper. He kisses Liam hard and dirty, working his mouth open with hungry presses, sucking on his tongue until Liam's spilling little groans between their lips.

Louis's hand comes up, caressing softly over the curve of Liam's cheek before smoothing down his neck. He strokes the ball of his thumb over Liam's Adam's apple, pulling back from the kiss, then fits his palm there and gives a slow, careful squeeze.

Zayn's heart snaps tight in his chest. Underneath Louis's weight, Liam has gone tense and quiet, gaze fixed on Louis like he's something he'll lose sight of if he so much as blinks.

"You've been good, haven't you?" Louis asks, looking Liam over critically, almost clinically.

"Yes," Liam answers promptly.

"You don't really _need_ it right now." He waits a beat, meeting Liam's eyes, but Liam's silent. Louis nods. "So this will just be a treat."

Then he pulls his hand back and slaps Liam across the face.

Zayn's breath comes in a sharp, nearly painful gasp. It's so loud he almost misses the sound of Liam whispering roughly, "Thank you."

"How did that feel?" Louis asks, staring down intently at Liam's wide eyes. "Too hard?"

"No."

"Harder?"

Liam lets out a soft whimper. "Yes, please."

Louis's hand snaps down in a second, sharper slap that actually rocks Liam's head to the side before he quickly tips it back up toward Louis. For a moment, Zayn can see a clear outline on his cheek, the pale red palimpsest of fingers, before it fades away.

"Thank you," Liam says again, voice rough and low. Zayn bites his lip against a hysterical urge to laugh, a little strangled noise stuttering out of him.

"You're shocking Zayn," Louis says. He smirks, and his eyes are still on Liam, but the smug look is for both of them. "Can you imagine what he's thinking, seeing you like this? Seeing you get all hot over me slapping you about?" Liam's face flushes, color climbing up his throat. "What do you think he thinks of it?"

Despite himself, Zayn leans forward to hear, curious. He's not sure _what_ he thinks or feels about it, to be honest, beyond shocked like Louis said, but he wants to know what Liam thinks, what kind of places this takes his thoughts.

"He—" Liam swallows, voice ragged. "I don't know, I don't—"

"Wrong," Louis says. The crack of his hand is expected, this time, and Zayn has a chance to watch him deliver the blow. His face is unexpectedly serious, calculating, and Zayn watches him automatically gauge distance and strength and hold himself in check, delivering a sharp smack to Liam's previously unmarked cheek that is more loud and stinging than forceful. It snaps Liam's face the other way, toward Zayn, and Louis puts a hand on his jaw, keeping him turned that direction so that they're forced to look into each other's eyes. Over the throb of blood in his own ears, Zayn can just make out Liam's soft murmur of gratitude.

"Look at him," Louis orders. "Look in his eyes. He's watching you. He can see how hard you are for me." Zayn didn't notice that, actually, too caught up in the riot of emotions flickering openly across Liam's face, but at Louis's words he glances down and, sure enough, Liam's cock is full and hard, stretching out the front of his briefs. It gives a little jerk as he watches, and Zayn lifts his gaze back to Liam's face, sees the blush darken in his cheeks. "What do you think he sees?"

"How much I want it." Liam cringes faintly after the words, but he doesn't look away. "How easy I am for you, how I'm—"

Louis waits him out a beat, prodding Liam in the side with his knee when he doesn't continue. "Go on," he urges, voice firm but the hand on Liam's belly soothing, rubbing soft circles, a confusing mix of stern and gentle that has Liam's breath quickening. "What are you?"

"I'm-—" Zayn holds his breath, unable to look away from Liam's flushed face, the trembling fullness of his lower lip as he pauses to take a breath. "A slut," he whispers, face twisting as he chokes it out. "I'm a slut for you, want you so bad, please, oh god-—"

"Good boy," Louis coos, almost mocking, but there's a fond heat in his eyes and a gentle slide of his fingertips as he pets at Liam's throat. "Good little slut. I'm going to give you what you want, because you asked so pretty. Gonna take care of you, empty you out—" He taps two fingers gently against Liam's forehead, "—and then fill you up."

"Please," Liam begs again.

"But you have to be good. You have to follow the rules."

"I will."

"Don't you want to know what the rules are?" Louis asks sharply. "Or are you so desperate to get off you'll do anything?"

Louis grabs Liam by the chin and pulls his head around to meet his eyes. There's a silent conversation; disapproval in Louis's narrowed gaze, contrition in Liam's full lip between his teeth.

"No," Liam finally answers, quiet and serious. He takes a deep, slow breath, lets it out with a little shake. "No, I'm not. Please tell me the rules."

Louis barely flicks his gaze in Zayn's direction, but it's enough for him to get it. Caught up in the moment and the red blooming in Liam's cheeks, he's almost forgotten that this is for him, at least in part. Louis's showing him, making it explicit so that he understands. _See_ , that quick glance says to Zayn, _I don't make him do anything. This is what he chooses. This is what he wants._

Zayn still isn't sold on that. But he's willing to watch and learn.

"The first rule is that you don't ask for anything." Liam nods minutely, as if this is something he's used to. "You take what you get, and you thank me for it."

His fingertips trace over Liam's cheekbone, down his cheek, pressing at the full swell of Liam's lower lip. Liam purses his mouth and tilts his chin down to return the pressure with a dry kiss. "Thank you," he says softly, and Louis smiles.

"Good boy. The second rule is, as always, you tell me when you don't like something."

"Does he have a word?" Zayn feels a little ping of embarrassment when both men glance at him, but he shrugs it off. This is about Liam's safety, after all. "Something to say if it's bad?"

For some reason, the question makes both of them crack a smile.

"What's your safe word, babe?" Louis asks around a grin.

"Stop," Liam replies promptly, fighting to stay serious.

"That's it?" Zayn frowns, confused. He maybe did a little research after the talk with Louis this morning, just a teeny bit of Internet surfing, and everything he saw looked more... well, _complicated_. Surely Liam's safe word should be 'red light' or 'Batman' or 'Doncaster's footie team is shit.' "Just 'stop'?"

Louis shrugs. "Simple, but effective."

"Are those all the rules?" Liam breaks in with a rush. Louis gives him an indulgent smile, apparently more entertained with the way Liam's squirming slightly than annoyed by him speaking out of turn. If that's even the way it works. The longer this goes on, the less Zayn feels like he understands. This doesn't seem like the kind of thing he read about, the kind of thing it felt like just minutes ago when Louis was slapping Liam in the face. It's gone off the script Zayn was expecting, and he wonders suddenly what he's doing here, if he's made a stupid mistake.

"No. The last rule is that no matter what, until I let you come, you have to keep your eyes on Zayn."

That snaps Zayn from his thoughts like a clap of thunder. His mouth hangs open as he blinks at Louis, startled, then at Liam, who stares back at him, equally surprised.

"Okay?" Louis asks, giving Liam's face a little shake.

It turns his head a bit, but Liam rolls his eyes to the side, keeping sight of Zayn from the corners. "Okay," he says.

"Oh, good boy," Louis breathes out, pleased, tipping Liam's head back around toward Zayn, and rewards him by pushing his vest up and giving his nipple a hard, twisting pinch.

"Ah!" Liam cries out, eyes almost closing before he catches himself. "Thank—" Louis tugs sharply before he can even get the words out and he jerks, voice hitching. "—you! Thank you."

"You're welcome," Louis drawls, syrupy with amusement and arousal both. He plays idly with Liam's nipples, sometimes pulling at them, other times circling them lightly with just the edge of his thumb, changing up the touch so that when he flicks hard with his nail it makes Liam flinch and whine. He tuts soothingly, bending to lick and mouth around his fingers, but turns quickly to biting, sucking at Liam's chest until his nipple is flushed with blood before taking it between his teeth and tugging hard enough that Zayn can see the give and stretch of skin.

"Fuck! Thank you," Liam forces out, brow creased and breath quick with the pain of it. It has to hurt—Zayn's cringing and reflexively rubbing a palm over his own chest in sympathy—but when he sneaks a glance down Liam's still just as hard, the front of his briefs getting a little damp, even, darkening just at the spot where the head of his dick must be pressed.

He looks up again when Liam makes a little hurt noise, meets his gaze and feels caught, pinned by the flushed desperation flooding his face. Louis's making his way steadily down Liam's body, dragging his nails down perfect goddamn washboard abs, bright red streaks left behind that take long seconds to fade.

"Do you want me to touch you?" Louis asks from between Liam's thighs, lips brushing his dick through the damp cloth. Liam hisses, but holds still for it as Louis peels the briefs off, inch by torturous inch, slowly enough that _Zayn_ wants to snap at him to hurry it up. He catches himself before he can give voice to the words, conscious that while this may be for him, it isn't his show. Christ, though, Louis's a relentless fucking tease.

"Do you want my hand on you, baby?" Louis's palms ghost down Liam's thighs, dragging his pants off until they're hanging from his ankle for a moment before slipping to the floor. "Or my mouth, is that it? D'you want my mouth on your dick?" His head dips dangerously low, breath huffing out warm over the head of Liam's straining cock. More slick pumps out, makes him all shiny, clings to Louis's bottom lip like some gorgeous high-quality porn when he dips in and pulls away.

"I want," Liam says carefully; almost preternaturally calm, if you weren't looking into his eyes like Zayn is, couldn't see the sick twist of desire there. "I want whatever you want to give me."

Zayn's impressed by Liam's self-control—if their places were reversed he'd've fisted a hand in Louis's hair long ago, dragged him down until he was throat-deep and couldn't breathe. Louis doesn't praise him for it, though, doesn't take any notice except to brush his mouth over the sticky head of Liam's cock again, drag his lips down the length to where his balls rest, heavy and tight, and give them a lipping bite. Zayn winces, can't help but drop a hand to cup his own crotch in sympathy, that tingly numb feeling buzzing in his stomach like it does every time he sees someone in a movie get kneed in the junk. Liam must be able to see his hand, or read his reaction on his face, because a laugh startles out of him, this strangely bright noise, incongruous given the situation but so very _Liam_ that Zayn laughs back.

"Hmmm," Louis hums. "Maybe…" He says something Zayn can't quite make out with the angle and distance, though he's almost certain he hears the buzzing sound of his own name. Whatever it is, it wipes the humor from Liam's face, and the blush that was slowly starting to fade rushes back with vivid color. It's Louis's turn to laugh. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Louis—" Liam begins, warningly, but Louis smacks a flamboyant and oddly sweet kiss to Liam's hip.

"Not _now_. Right now, I don't think I want to put my mouth on your dick. Think I want to put it somewhere else."

That's all the warning either of them gets before Louis's hefting Liam's hips and pushing his legs apart. Zayn chokes audibly, can hear it even over Liam crying out as he automatically tries to close his knees, hiding himself from view.

"Don't be shy, babe," Louis croons, parting Liam's thighs again and pressing them back to his chest. "Let Zayn get a look at how pretty you are."

It's an awkward position, but Louis shuffles himself to the side enough to hold Liam's thigh up with his shoulder, elbow bent so that he can still reach to cup Liam's balls out of the way. His free hand presses between Liam's cheeks, spreading them clumsily to open him to Zayn. The dark, wiry hair on Liam's groin runs all the way down before thinning out around the tight clench of his hole, bared to view by the wide stretch of Louis's fingers.

It's shocking, how intimate it is. Zayn keeps trying to think of another word for it, but his mind is just one dull hum, a broken refrigerator. Of all the things he knows about Liam, every way he's seen him—young and scared and lonely, grown and confident and glowing, dressed in suits and sweatpants and naked stepping from the shower—this is something he's never seen, never even imagined. A place you only see when you're down to skin and wrapped around someone, a hidden place exposed when you fuck a girl from behind, or sink your face between her legs. Even the one time he put his cock there in a girl (her idea, and he'd been 18 years old and already pretty famous and tried so hard not to look like a virgin all over again) he hadn't seen it; let her slick herself open and found his way in the dark, face hot with alcohol and the dirty taboo of it.

It's not something that's ever really caught his imagination or turned him on before, not with soft round tits and tight pussies and lush, hot mouths to keep his attention. But looking at Liam spread open like that, held there by Louis while he squirms and gasps embarrassed sounds, unable to look away from the sight of Zayn staring at him, Zayn feels want clench deep in his gut, his already interested cock stiffening painfully between his thighs.

"Fuck, Liam," he groans, unable to help himself. "You look..."

"Tell him." Louis's voice rattles Zayn, drags his gaze ever so briefly away. Louis's smirk is knowing and smug. "He likes that."

Zayn swallows, too much saliva suddenly in his mouth, pooled under his tongue. "Look so fucking good," Zayn croaks, honest. "So hot all open like that, Liam, christ."

"God," Liam gasps, his head tilting back, eyes closing. Immediately Louis pinches at the delicate skin at the crease of Liam's thigh, and Liam's head snaps up, eyes flying wide.

"Rules," Louis reminds. "Keep your eyes on Zayn."

"Lou, please—" Liam's struggling for words, shaking a little.

"Yes, Liam? Is there something you'd like?"

The sweetness in Louis's voice is thick as turpentine. Liam bites his lip, dragging a deep, shaky breath in through his nose, then another, before he finally shakes his head.

"No," he whispers.

"There's a lad," Louis coos, rewarding Liam's self-control with another pinch to the back of his thigh and then one up and in, close to his balls. It isn't much of a reward that Zayn can see, though Liam shudders into the touch, Louis's fingers either too rough on the tender skin or too light when he glides them up the seam of Liam's balls. He keeps alternating between the sensations, sharp and then soft, until Zayn almost feels like asking him to take pity himself, stop bloody _teasing_.

"Look at how easy he is for it," Louis marvels, gaze still glued to Liam's arse but his words all for Zayn. "D'you think I could make him come just like this, just by pinching and stroking at him, if I didn't ever put a finger in him, didn't touch his cock?"

Zayn scratches at his neck, dipping down below his collar; he's sweating lightly, feels like the air's getting too thick to breathe. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know if that's possible, to come just from that."

"Maybe not." Louis frowns at Liam's flushed face. His nails skitter down the valley of his arse, scrape over his hole and draw a sharp gasp. "Maybe it would just get him very, very close."

"Lou," Liam grunts—not asking for anything this time, just mindless, like Louis's name is the only word left that he knows.

"Are you going to beg?" Louis taunts eagerly, leaning in with a wicked little grin to nip at Liam's throat. "Are you ready to beg me to make you come?"

Liam's mouth parts, but his words are stolen by a moan as Louis slips his thumb over his hole and presses firmly, just shy of enough to force him in. It takes Liam a moment to gather himself again and breathe out raggedly, "No."

And there's something—Zayn wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been watching Louis's face instead of Liam's, might not have understood it if he didn't know Louis so well, but there's something very much like _disappointment_ that flashes over his face. Just for a moment, before he's proud, praising Liam for being so good and easing the tip of his thumb inside to a litany of _thank you_ s. Just for those few seconds, when Liam is shaking and focusing desperately on Zayn and refusing to break the rules, Zayn sees it cloud Louis's eyes. Disappointment that Liam isn't going to beg him, that he doesn't get to tease more or put him back in his place.

Or maybe. Maybe more than that. Maybe he's disappointed that Liam doesn't fight back, doesn't overwhelm Louis the way they all know he could, easily, flip him over and pin him down and just take what he wants. Maybe Louis isn't testing him, not 100%. Maybe he's _goading_ him. Maybe he _wants_ Liam to break.

It's a thought like a stone dropped into the whirling chaos of Zayn's thoughts, rippling out until his mind is rocking with it. He's so hard he has to squirm to rub his dick against the seam of his track pants just for a little relief. He tries to do it subtly, but Liam's looking right at him, he keeps forgetting, Louis _ordered him_ to keep his eyes on Zayn. It's so hot Zayn's sick with it, sick with himself and all these new desires he never wanted to know he had.

"That's it, sweetheart, get them wet," Louis says, and Zayn comes back to the moment: Liam sucking on two of Louis's fingers, the swell of his mouth soft and dark and bitable. Louis fucks them gently a few times between his lips, thumbing the corner of his mouth, then all at once gets impatient and pulls them away, diving down between Liam's legs and shoving them into his arse hard enough to draw a shout.

"Gonna make you come," Louis murmurs, soft enough that Zayn has to lean forward to hear. "So good for me, Liam, so fucking perfect, gonna make you come, gonna give it to you. Look at me, babe, you can look at me now. Look at me, look at me."

Louis's voice has grown a ragged, desperate edge that chews at the frayed ends of Zayn's nerves, plays tricks with his pulse. Louis's free hand moves to cup Liam's throat again, and Zayn finds himself holding his own breath. Half horrified and entirely paralyzed, he watches Liam's eyes glaze over, lashes fluttering, then finally break their stare as he turns his gaze on Louis.

For all the talking and teasing Louis's done, it takes only a handful of moments once he's got permission for Liam to come. He does it choking, literally, under Louis's hand, body pulled tight as a guitar string and face contorted in something too close to pain. Zayn almost leaps up then, almost knocks Louis away, fear thudding in his chest before it registers that Liam's shuddering in completion, come pulsing from his untouched cock, spattering his belly. He realizes then that he's stopped breathing along with Liam and drags in a shuddering gasp, too loud, drawing Louis's dark gaze.

They stare at each other for an endless moment. Louis's hand is still on Liam's neck, gentle, now, petting at the red finger marks pressed into his skin. Louis licks his lips; Zayn watches his tongue, helpless.

"Okay?" Louis asks. "Need to see any more?"

It doesn't make sense for the longest moment. Zayn has to actively pull himself back from the edge and force himself to think, to remember why he's here in the first place, seeing this. Not to get hard watching his friends get off, like a pervert; to make sure Liam's safe. To make sure Louis isn't hurting him in ways he doesn't want. To _understand_.

"No," Zayn whispers, voice scratchy and raw like the early morning before he's smoked his first cigarette. "No, that's enough. Thank you. I'm gonna—yeah, I'll just go,"

"Right then," Louis says, dipping his chin in a little goodbye because his hands are still occupied with Liam's body. Zayn can’t tell if Liam's just exhausted or he's actually passed out, but he can see his chest rising and falling in a slow, easy rhythm. "Have a good night."

It could be anything he sees flash in Louis's eyes; Zayn only wants it to be disappointment.

 

*

 

Zayn thinks about it for a long time afterward. At lunch, when Louis's pulling faces at Liam's protein shake, trying to pour condiments in it while Liam attempts to box him out, laughing. In interviews, when questions are asked about disappointed fans and twitter rants and Liam's shoulders hunch and begin to tighten, and Louis finds a way to turn the conversation around, sharp and funny, his hand slipping unnoticed between the couch cushion and Liam's back, moving in small, careful circles. In his bunk at night, with a hand down the front of his pants and the other in his mouth, trying to muffle the little grunts that push out as he rocks his hips up and thinks of Liam's face, slack and drugged with pleasure, the hard ridge of Louis's spine curving over him.

It's like, once he's seen it, he can't stop seeing it everywhere. He wonders if they've become more obvious or if he was really just that oblivious before, too wrapped up in himself to notice the dozen little moments every day that add up to this. It's _constant_ , is the thing. The way Liam looks to Louis for reassurance, for praise, for agreement; the way he lights up when he makes Louis laugh, every god damn time, like even after all this time he still doesn't quite expect it.

And Louis fuckin dotes on him. Always has done, even at the beginning when they were at each other's throats, all sharp angles colliding before they realized they were puzzle pieces, found the way to fit. Even when Louis's being an arse and driving them all nuts, Liam especially, pestering and pushing, there's a fondness to it all—a care and a _sweetness_ that makes Zayn's teeth ache at the roots. The way Louis will hang off of Liam's back, clinging like a monkey and tickling him and fucking with his hair, but the moment Liam becomes seriously grumpy he'll turn...soft. Stroking his hair back and asking Liam not to be mad with his mouth ridiculously puffed out, and it's goofy, but it's also not. It's the only way Louis can say he's sorry, by still being a bit of an arse, but that doesn't mean it isn't sincere. And Liam melts for it every single time.

He thinks he's being subtle about watching them, at least. Until a sound check in New Jersey when Liam sits down next to him during a five minute break and asks, "Something you want to talk about?"

"What?" Zayn goggles, surprised out of his reverie.

"You've been sat over here for the past two minutes with a look on your face like you're trying to solve a Rubik's cube."

Which is definitively nicer than the thoughts that had _actually_ been behind that look: memories of Liam's mouth hollowed around Louis's fingers, the sharp, shameless arch of his spine.

"I actually can solve a Rubik's cube," Zayn tells him.

The corner of Liam's mouth pulls up in a smile, but his gaze remains steady, serious. "And you were staring."

"Sorry, I was just thinking. Guess I spaced out." When Liam's gaze doesn't waver, Zayn adds, "Long night, didn't get much sleep," uncertain even as he says it whether he's trying to flirt with Liam or antagonize him.

Liam doesn't answer for a beat, his face doing something complicated as several emotions flicker across it, but none catches and holds. His smile is uneasy, hesitant, like he wants to laugh, but has a nagging fear he's the center of the joke. "Funny, I had the same kind of night."

"Odd, that," Zayn agrees, bobbing his head in a nod, keeping it going to a phantom tune. "Must be something in the water."

Slowly, Liam nods back. They don't talk, but their eyes meet, and enough is said in that one glance for now.

 

*

 

It's 1 am and there's a dog barking outside. It's probably coming from the little park across the street from the hotel. If he were up on the 16th floor with Harry and Niall, Zayn probably wouldn't hear it, but the barks pierce right through the van's walls. Deep, sonorous yaps, the bark of a good-sized hound lamenting its lot in life to the world.

Zayn's eyes are gritty and dry with lack of sleep. The barking comes in waves, stopping for minutes at a time, lulling him into a false sense of security before starting up again.

One of those hopeful silences is interrupted by a loud, indignant yawp and Zayn's jolted from a shallow sleep, heart racing with the adrenaline rush of waking up too fast. He sighs shakily. Across the aisle he hears the rustle of Liam turning over in his bunk.

"Zayn?" Liam's voice drifts out into the space between their bunks, brushing softly at the curtain folding Zayn in darkness. "Are you awake?"

He lets the silence hold for a beat, contemplating feigning sleep. But he is awake, and it feels like lying. "There's literally only one answer to that question ever," he grumbles. "It's like when teachers would ask 'is everyone here?' Like you could project yourself onto the astral plane and float in to say, 'I'm not, overslept, be there in ten.'"

"I'm going to just take that as a yes," Liam answers after a moment. Zayn grins in the dark, can't help it, feeling stupid with the smile stretching his face as he hears Liam rustle around more and then push the curtain back, lifting himself silently into Zayn's bunk.

"Can't sleep?" Liam asks. His voice is low and clear, Zayn's always thought of it as /clean/, but there's a husky edge to it now that reflects the late hour, like maybe Liam had found sleep himself but returned from it at Zayn's restlessness.

Zayn shakes his head. The way they're pressed together, lined up and touching at toes and nose, Liam must be able to hear it, feel the soft ends of Zayn's fallen hair brush his face. "Damn dog," Zayn says by way of explanation. "Shoulda gone up to the rooms."

"Too faaaar," Liam drags out on a yawn, warm fan of breath over Zayn's mouth and jaw, perfectly echoing Zayn's own thoughts two hours ago as he'd stood on the bus's steps and contemplated the distance between bus and hotel in terms of handheld cameras and headaches.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Still, bet Harry and Nialler are sleeping like babies." And then, because he was always the kind of kid to itch at scabs and tongue loose teeth, he asks, "S'Louis out?" hoping the scratch in his voice can be put down to the hour.

"Dead to the world," Liam confirms. He cuddles a little closer, knees knocking gently against Zayn's but going no further, not tucking in and twining together like they might on some other night. Liam's big hand falls warm on Zayn's shoulder, drifts down to his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. "Do you want a bedtime story?"

Zayn laughs, surprised huff of breath right in Liam's face that makes Liam jerk back reflexively. His eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that he can just make out Liam's pleased smile as he settles near again, noses brushing. "Is it a story about five boys who meet and go on wonderful adventures together?"

"A little bit," Liam says. "It's about three of those boys in particular, and what good mates they all are and the mischief they get into."

"Liam," Zayn says like a warning, throat closing around the syllables.

"And then they have an adventure that's terribly exciting, but maybe makes one of them feel a bit uncomfortable?" Liam's voice lilts up faintly at the end in question.

Zayn swallows, resisting the urge to retreat deeper into the bunk, press himself to the wall and hope he melts through it.

"Do we have to talk about this?" he asks.

"No," Liam answers immediately. "We don't have to if you'd rather not. Only I think - maybe you want to? Because it seems like maybe you've been thinking about it."

Zayn must be silent for too long, because Liam starts to fidget, the circles he was smoothing over Zayn's back turning into soft, restless scratching. On a rush Liam bursts out, "I've been thinking about it too, it's okay. It's okay to think about, it was kind of a big thing that happened and like, it would be kind of weird if we weren't still thinking about it. Only I don't know _what_ you're thinking and I really, just, I'd really like to?"

"I don't know," Zayn says, because it's easy, and because it's true. "I don't know what I'm thinking, I don't know what to think. I know all of it was to help me understand, but I don't, still. I feel like I understand even less."

"Okay." Liam licks his lips, carefully, so close to Zayn's mouth his tongue could touch, but it doesn't. The bare inch of space steamed between their mouths burns. "That's okay, too. It's not, like, a regular thing I guess, right? It's probably hard to understand if you don't—if you're not like that. Like me." Liam's voice hums down to a whisper at the end, faltering. "Do you feel... differently now? About. About me?"

Zayn closes his eyes. There's a trembling inside trying to arrow its way out, so that he has to tighten his mouth to keep it steady. "I don't want to," he says. "But I can't stop seeing it. Seeing you."

"Oh," Liam says, voice cracking down the middle, and Zayn's eyes fly open because that single word is full of so much anguish. Liam's face is wrung up with grief in the shadowy grey darkness. It makes Zayn's breath catch, makes him tighten his hand on Liam's hip and drag him closer, right up against Zayn, because _no_ , fuck, that isn't what he meant, the awful thought spooling out behind Liam's eyes, he can't let Liam spend another single second believing that.

"Liam, _no_ ," Zayn croons, hugging fiercely to Liam's shaking shoulders. "Not like that, I'd never—you were _good_. You were beautiful, you're good, Liam, please, don't—"

Liam snuffles deeply against his neck, a heart rending sound, but his trembling eases a bit. When he lifts his face to the weak light it glints off his eyes, but his cheeks are dry, no shiny tell-tale tear tracks. Zayn disentangles a hand from where it's fisted in Liam's shirt to cup his cheek, light and gentle.

"Babe," he whispers. "God, Liam, have you been worrying about that? That I think less of you, because of—" He doesn't have a hand free, but he bobs his head a little in a gesture to encompass that night.

Liam sucks in a wet, shaky breath, eyes growing brighter, blinking furiously. "I-" he starts, and then has to stop again, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at himself. "Sorry, sorry. I'm all right." He takes a steadying breath. "I didn't know. I thought—at the time, it seemed like—but then you got so distant, after, and I just didn't know."

"You thought what?" Zayn's heart picks up in his chest, patters out a quick opening riff. "What did it seem like?"

Liam looks back and forth between Zayn's eyes, but he shakes his head. "Nothing. I don't know. Imagining things. You don't - you don't think badly of me? After seeing all that?"

"I could never." Zayn shakes his head, leans down to scrub a kiss across Liam's forehead. "Never, babe. I may not understand why, but I know it feels good for you, and I don't think less of you for wanting it."

"Or Louis?" Liam adds after a moment.

"Not Louis either. Love you both. I'm so sorry, Liam. I never meant to make you feel poorly for it."

"It's okay," Liam forgives quietly. Zayn wants to make him take it back, insist it _isn't_ okay, but he lets it go, just pulls Liam a little closer. "Can I stay here for a bit? Until you fall asleep?"

Zayn doesn't think it'll take long, his body suddenly leaden with exhaustion, but he nods. Liam cuddles up easily, folding to fit around Zayn's angles, head tucked up beneath Zayn's chin. Zayn listens to his breaths as they calm and slow, feels the metronome of his chest resume its steady rhythm. He feels both safe, caught up in the strong cage of Liam's arms, and protective, his hand cupped behind the vulnerable nape of Liam's neck, lips pressed to his crown.

They're still curled up just the same way in the morning.

 

*

 

He doesn't mean for it to happen again. He doesn't think any of them do. There's no point to it; he saw what he needed to, was reassured, and the rest is private, none of his business. He shouldn't be seeing this, the hungry way Louis's mouth moves over Liam's shoulder, the back of his neck, holding him in place by the grip of his teeth as he works his hands under Liam's shirt. This isn't for Zayn's eyes; he doesn't need to add any new images to the scenes that run through his brain on a constant loop every night.

He should probably leave, go up to the hotel with Harry and Niall, or even shut himself in his bunk, at least maintain the illusion of privacy. But then, why is it his job? He was here first, just trying to watch a film when Liam decided to join, and of course once Louis woke up he wasn't far behind. Pushing Liam off the couch to steal his spot, without a word of protest from Liam, who could've fought him off or sat on another cushion, but instead just folded down on the floor between Louis's legs and went back to watching the movie. He looks happier, if Zayn is completely honest. Content to sit wherever Louis puts him because that's where Louis wants him to be.

Which is a little—it does something to Zayn's stomach to see it, a seasick roll that isn't entirely unpleasant, but fine, whatever. He could deal if it stayed like that, Liam between Louis's knees, Louis's fingers in his hair, scratching at his head and running through his gelled-back fringe until it fell soft and feathered across his forehead.

Only it doesn't stay that way, of course. It's barely been ten minutes and Louis's wrapped around Liam like a jumper that shrank in the tumble dryer, hands under his shirt and mouth at his neck, biting and sucking and making obscene little noises that really challenge Zayn's commitment to pretend it isn't happening. He turns the volume higher, hoping there'll be some on-screen explosions soon, and pointedly clears his throat.

The boys don't detach, though Zayn catches the faint edge of a whisper Louis slips against Liam's jaw. Liam jerks, unbalancing and flailing a little, reaching back to steady himself before he falls. His hand ends up near Zayn's leg, fingers curling into the cushion, the back of his knuckles brushing Zayn's thigh. Automatically he shifts away from the contact. Then shifts back, annoyed at himself for giving in. Hears Liam groan and shifts away again.

"Stop dancing around mate, you're making the couch shake." Louis pulls away from the vivid rose-colored bruise on Liam's shoulder long enough to shoot Zayn an unimpressed look.

"How would you notice?" he says back. "Just trying to get comfortable with you two hogging all the leg space. You're missing the movie, you know."

"Catching a pretty good show all the same, though," Louis mumbles, mouth half-hidden by the stretched-out collar of Liam's shirt as he noses it down, trying to find new skin. "Didn't think you'd complain."

Zayn's breath sounds loud on the long inhale through his nose, a subway roar in his ears. Liam's fingers are still pressed to his thigh, slowly curling into a fist as Louis's mouth worries his shoulder, and Zayn feels the outline of each one keenly, a hot lash mark seared into his skin. When he glances over, Liam has his eyes closed, head tipped down to bare the notches of his spine, but Louis's eyes are open and fixed on Zayn.

"Didn't say I was complaining," Zayn says. He tries to keep his voice level, cool, but he hears the way it trembles out toward the end, uncertain. His mouth is full of spit suddenly, but he refuses to swallow, feeling like a horny teenager dancing with a girl for the first time and trying desperately not to let her feel his boner.

Louis just smiles like he sees right through him, but won't call him on it. "Good," he says, humming the word into Liam's neck, whole face pressing there with just one eye peeking out at Zayn. "You shouldn't, you should enjoy it. Not just anyone gets to catch the matinee."

His grin is bright and white and his hand is snaking down into the waist of Liam's trousers, doing something to make him groan. Louis's hand moves and Liam's body twists, curling in, his forehead falling down onto Zayn's knee, and it burns him, the possibility of the moment: the weight of Liam's head on his leg and everything it could mean if he wanted it to. If he were bold enough to take it.

Zayn lets his hand fall, casually, slipping from his knee until it's cradled in the dense wave of Liam's hair. He feels it when Liam's eyes drag over him, a push of heat over his face like a breath, like a whisper.

" _Zayn_ ," Liam groans.

He could have it. This moment, this boy at his feet—both of these boys, they lie within his grasp.

He hears Louis calling him as he jumps up from the sofa, but he doesn't wait for him to say more than his name. He only pauses long enough to grab his hoodie with a soft pack of Camels tucked into the deep center pocket, and then he's bursting through the bus door out into the cool night, and he's running, running, barely stopping to touch the ground.

 

*

 

"Why aren't you talking to Louis?"

Zayn doesn't look up from his comic. The page is dominated by panels of someone in a nun's habit and a Ronald Reagan mask, stark and disturbing against the soft watercolor background. Harry makes a choked-off sound when he sits down next to him on the arm of the sofa. "Jesus Christ, that's creepy."

"Right?" Zayn sighs wistfully, feathering a fingertip over the page. "You see the way he uses a glow here to make everything look like it's sort of floating? Like they're lit from inside. Templesmith's a genius."

"Really, deeply creepy," Harry reiterates. "No, but why?"

"I think it's supposed to make it feel otherworldly. Cause Snowtown is, like, a negative of our world, where the bizarre and terrible is normal and the g—"

"Yeah, no, I meant why aren't you taking to Louis?" Harry clarifies.

"I know that," Zayn says, turning a page. "It's called 'changing the subject.'"

"I realized."

"When someone changes the subject, it's because they don't want to talk about whatever you've said, and it's considered polite to _go with it._ "

"That's fascinating. Thank you for that, I feel very cultured now. Why aren't you talking to Louis?"

"Fuck off, Harry," Zayn tells him half-heartedly.

"I _would_ ," Harry says, elbowing him over and sliding down until his skinny bum is properly wedged onto the sofa next to Zayn. "I normally would, only Louis's mopey about it and that makes him a twat. And Liam also seems mopey about it, which makes him… well, mopey, mostly. He's doing that thing with his bottom lip, you know, the face he makes for you. It's getting really sad up in here."

"I don't want to talk about it, I already told you."

"Sure you do."

"No, I don't. Sometimes I want to keep things to myself. Sometimes I don't want to share _every damn thing_ just because this band is weird and invasive and has no boundaries."

He's a bit loud by the end of it, comic clutched shut with just his fingertip between the pages to keep his place. Harry just nods at him seriously.

"You're yelling at me," he says serenely, "but you're yelling _about_ the real issue, because subconsciously you want to talk about it. You just think you can't. But you can. This is a safe space."

Zayn stares. "I swear to god, I can't even tell if you're taking the piss right now or not."

"Is it a weird sex thing?" Harry asks.

"No!" Zayn shakes his head, laughing a little. "What the hell? No."

"Are you having creative differences? Is it because Liam and Louis didn't like that line you wrote the other day? Because you can't let that kind of thing come between you, Zayn. Creative differences are always what break bands up. That and girlfriends. I remember one time, when I was in my other band before the X-Factor, I wrote this song—"

"It's a weird sex thing," Zayn blurts.

"—and Will said he didn't think—oh." Harry, blessedly, cuts his story off. He nods encouragingly. "What happened?"

Zayn looks down at the comic still tucked between his hands. He fingers a page, drawing his thumb along the edge, and promptly gets a paper cut. Life is awful.

"Something happened," he admits quietly. "Something kind of intense, like." He darts a glance up to make sure no one's lingering in the hall; keeps his voice soft still, because the road is loud beneath them, but in such a confined space sound still carries. "With Louis. And Liam."

" _Oh_ ," Harry says, with an extra shade of feeling. "Oh, wow. I just figured you'd finally given in to the sexual tension between you and Liam, and Louis had found out and everything was awkward."

"There's no sexual tension between me and Liam," Zayn says quickly.

Harry gives Zayn the kind of half-incredulous, half-despairing look that Harry himself is usually on the other end of after stumbling into the fog machines on stage. It's disconcerting to be on this side of it. "Are you actually kidding me right now," Harry asks flatly. "You stare at Liam like it's five in the morning and he's the last cup of coffee in the world. Like your mum's made you give up smoking again and he's the last cigarette you'll ever taste. Like you're on death row and—"

"Okay, I get it, please stop with the damn similes. You know there's a reason Louis and Liam do most of the writing."

Harry manages to look both tragically wounded and triumphant, which makes Zayn feel twice as stupid.

"Anyway, you're wrong. I don't look at him any of those ways. I don't look at _anyone_ like the last cup of coffee, that’s sacred, it's practically heresy you're spouting."

"You do," Harry insists firmly. "Oi, Niall! Nialler!"

"The fuck!" Zayn hisses, glaring furiously as Niall shoulders open the door and pops his head in.

"What's up?"

"Do your thirsty Zayn face."

Niall frowns. "His Louis-thirsty face or his Liam-thirsty face?"

"Whoa," Zayn objects, "I definitely do not have a—"

"The Liam one," Harry says, talking over him.

Niall turns to Zayn and pulls a complicated face that involves a furrowed brow, his tongue running over his bottom lip, and a lot of intense eye contact.

"That's the one!" Harry crows.

"I don't make that face ever!"

"Mate," Niall says, letting his face relax into its normal lines, "there's about a million billion pictures of you making that face."

"Specifically at Liam," Harry adds helpfully.

"Specifically at Liam," Niall agrees. "Why are we talking about this? Have you finally told Liam how you feel? Is that why you're avoiding Louis?"

"I hate you both, get out of my life," Zayn tells them with feeling.

"Cheers," Niall says back, snapping a little salute and pulling the door closed again.

"So, weird sex stuff," Harry prompts.

Zayn lets his head fall onto his free hand, rolling his forehead against the base of his palm in a futile effort to massage out the growing ache. "I don't want to have feelings about my best friend."

"Sexual feelings."

"I don't want to have _sexual feelings_ about my best friend."

"Best _friends._ "

"That's still under debate and I'm not admitting anything," Zayn says, even though he knows that Harry will take his refusal to deny it outright as an admission of guilt. His pulse throbs behind his eyes, in the roots of his teeth. "Say something useful, damn it."

"You need to talk to Louis."

"Not useful."

"It is," Harry insists. "It's not what you want to hear, but it is useful. You need to talk to Liam too, but probably Louis more."

"Why Louis more?" Zayn asks, tipping his head to give Harry a curious look despite himself.

"Well, who do you want to talk to _less?_ " Harry asks.

"Louis," Zayn says promptly.

Harry smiles, not unkindly, and shrugs. "There's your answer."

 

*

 

Zayn doesn't talk to Louis. He's aware that he is being a coward, and a child, and an idiot, and every rude thing he has ever called Louis, but he's pretty okay with that. He's a lot more okay with that than the alternative.

At any rate, it isn't like Louis's been knocking down his door. In fact, after a few early attempts to get Zayn to join in on a prank, or a trip to get new ink done—all of which Zayn smoothly talked his way out of—he's made it almost conspicuously easy for Zayn to avoid him.

Liam keeps throwing them both anxious glances, but Zayn's plan to not talk to Louis necessitates not talking much to Liam, either, so he manages to avoid any horrendously embarrassing heart-to-hearts. They continue on like that for the rest of the North American tour, only interacting on stage or when the others are about. It's easier when the movie premieres: the excitement of the premiere itself, coupled with the excruciating boredom of eleventy billion interviews, has them all exhausted enough that there isn’t really time to be awkward.

Zayn starts hanging out with Louis again with the onslaught of special appearances and red carpet events, and it's better than before. It's not like the tension isn't still there, but it's buried under inane interviews and stultifying parties where rich old business executives look at them like a particularly fascinating new species of bug. Louis has always been his ally in interviews, filling dead time when Zayn can't be bothered to expand on his answers, or pulling faces and annoying someone—usually Liam, but sometimes Niall—into playing with him when there are questions they're sick of or just don’t want to answer. Louis is the breath they all need sometimes, the surprise of real laughter when the smiles they're holding start to hurt, and Zayn has never taken that for granted, but he's ignored maybe how hard it's been to stay away until he stops.

By the time September rolls in and they head to Australia, something has settled into place between them that feels a little like a truce. They hang out, watching movies or playing video games or smoking up and talking until the small hours of morning, and neither of them says anything about the months before the break. It feels weighted, but not heavy; charged with a sort of potential energy that Zayn can ignore, that he makes himself ignore. Sometimes it flashes through his mind, that he knows what Liam looks like when he's coming, knows how Louis's breath stutters when he's unbearably turned on. He wonders if Louis thinks about it too. He doesn't ask him. Things are just going back to good, and if he pretends hard enough, it'll change. It has to, because Zayn is fairly certain that he can't go on living like this forever. It must be more than any one person can take.

As it turns out, he's right.

 

*

 

It comes to a boiling point in New Zealand. The tour is wrapping up, staggering toward the finish line on aching legs, and everyone's tolerance for bullshit is at dangerously low levels. They're crowded together in front of the vanity in Zayn's hotel room, preparing to go out; Zayn's feeling somber and dramatic, running a stick of kohl around his eyes, lining them in smudgy black. Louis keeps bumping him accidentally-on-purpose, fluffing up his hair with unnecessarily large gestures that bring his elbow flying back into Zayn's face, so that Zayn has to pull the eyeliner away when he dodges or risk burying it in his cornea.

"Knock it off," he gripes as Louis knocks a hip into his, and then a moment later when he almost elbows him in the mouth, "Lou, quit it."

"I'm not doing anything," Louis sings back in that loud, forcefully innocent tone that grates on Zayn's nerves. "I'm just doing my hair."

"Maybe you should do it in your own room then," Zayn says.

"Maybe you shouldn't hog the mirror."

"Maybe you should stop being so annoying,"

"Maybe you should stop being such a _bitch_."

It's unexpectedly harsh, not the words but the tone of it, a little too sharp to be teasing. It throws Zayn off, sends him back into silence, shoulders tight and hunched. He's sneaking little glances at Louis in the mirror, sees him sneaking them back, their gazes catching every few seconds and sliding apart. That's how he knows it's deliberate when Louis pulls his shoulder back and knocks into Zayn's hand. They're looking right at each other, and it's almost like it happens in slow motion; Louis moves and Zayn sees it coming but he keeps thinking he'll _stop_ , keeps thinking there's no way he'll do it when he knows Zayn's watching, cause half the fun is getting away with it unseen. And then he's slamming into Zayn's arm and his hand jerks, the careful line of kohl veering off and up across his temple, a stark black seam like a stitch.

"God fucking dammit!" Zayn yells, slamming the eyeliner on the counter and whirling on Louis. "Will you fucking settle?"

Louis's body shudders minutely when Zayn shouts, a repressed flinch, but his face doesn't give anything away as he tips his head to the side, considering. "No," he says at length.

"Fuck's sake Louis," Zayn grits out, proper agitated now, turning halfway back to the mirror as he scrubs furiously at the eyeliner. It smears into a fainter, thicker line. "Do you see what you made me do? Why the fuck can't you ever just leave off?"

"Don't tell me what to do," Louis snaps back.

"I'm telling you to stop being a wanker. It's not that bloody difficult."

"You can't make me," Louis says, and there's an edge of challenge to his voice that makes Zayn's body spark up instantly like snapping a glow stick, the neon rush of chemicals colliding and turning into light.

"I _can_ make you," he says, slow and careful and pissed as hell.

Something flickers across Louis's face, too fast to read. Zayn could take a guess at what it means, though.

" _Can't_ ," he drawls back, and Zayn doesn't even let the 't' click before he's on him.

They've wrestled dozens of times over the years, less often than Louis and Liam have because Zayn's usually too quick for it and above getting his hair mussed up, but this isn't like any of those times. No matter how hard they've gone at it, there's always been an edge of playfulness, a laugh caught in their chests even as they struggled and cursed. They've done damage to each other before, both too fucking stubborn to tap out or ease back, but never with malice, never with the intention to make it hurt, never anything they couldn't put a plaster over and forget.

Zayn wants to hurt him. It's thrumming through him like a second heartbeat, the tight coiling desire to inflict pain, leave marks, something he can press his fingers into the next day with a smirk, something that’ll leave Louis gasping and angry and wordless. Wordless, voiceless, bloody _shut up properly_ for once, so frustrated like Zayn feels right now that he can only howl with it.

Zayn wants to hear him _howl_.

"Always such a pain in the arse," he grunts, grappling with Louis’s flailing hands, trying to pin them down. Louis's a pretty piss-poor fighter technique wise, probably because he’s only got younger sisters, never had to hold his own against someone older and stronger, but he’s wiry and slippery as fuck. He keeps squirming, getting a knee up and trying for Zayn’s bollocks, forcing him to twist and catch it in the stomach instead. "So bleedin _mouthy_ all the time, don’t know when to shut your trap."

"Don't have to do anything," Louis huffs, bucking and straining. It's exactly what Zayn expected from him, all fire and defiance, making every last second of it a struggle, so when he adds, "Anything you can't make me," in a breathless whisper, it's worse than a blow. It knocks the breath from him as cleanly as a slug to the stomach, leaves him gasping and flailing for control, the automatic way his body shifts and balances the only thing keeping him on top of Louis, keeping him in the fight when his mind is swollen and echoing with the sounds of _make me make me make me_.

He remembers being in Japan, smoking out on the balcony of their hotel and watching the sky draw in, sudden and dark like a curtain being pulled. He’d barely had time to wonder over it before the first drops of rain fell; within 30 seconds he’d been soaked to the skin, cigarette dead and swollen with water. The sky had simply torn apart over his head, like nothing he’d ever seen before. Five minutes later it was over, the skies a calm, even grey and him still wet and shaking in the wake.

It feels like that now, staring at Louis and feeling the heat rise under his skin. Zero to sixty faster than any car he’s ever been in, the stomach-pulling acceleration of an airplane leaving the earth: two nauseous, dizzying breaths, and he’s weightless. His hands don't feel like part of him when they snag Louis's flashing wrists, squeezing tight and slamming them down onto the ground, leaning his whole weight into the grip until the fines bones are sliding under his palms, a sick, meaty grind. Louis's mouth drops open on a thin cry, almost too painful for sound.

He's still fighting, but it’s changed, the thrashing of his body almost convulsive now. His eyes roll, something pleading in their depths, but Zayn doesn't know if it's for more or for mercy, and suddenly he feels sick. He's reminded abruptly of the fish Liam had netted for his supper at one restaurant, the way it had flopped and struggled with blind animal panic, its mouth and gills gaping for air as it slowly strangled. He remembers the way Liam's body had shuddered as Louis choked him, how terrified he'd been for an endless moment until he'd realized it wasn't a death rattle, but the spasm of Liam's orgasm; how he'd never noticed until that moment how much they looked the same.

He looks down into Louis's face now, trying to read him even as he presses down harder, knees digging cruelly into his sides, hands cuffed around his wrists so tight that Louis's fingertips are slowly turning purple. "I don't know," he says wildly, an edge of tears in his voice he hadn't felt before to match the glint in the corner of Louis's eyes. "I don't know, Louis, you've got to tell me—"

Louis’s mouth crashes against his, hard, demanding, eager, biting back and fighting like Zayn always hoped it would, the way he dreamed as he pulled himself off in his bunk, quiet and desperate. Louis’s kiss is all aggression, an attack, and it gives Zayn permission to attack back, bite and pull and _take_ , take what he’s wanted so badly since that night in Liam’s hotel room. Probably, if he’s honest, since long before that.

"Is this okay," he rasps into Louis's mouth, even as he's pushing down against Louis's struggles, tightening his hands and rocking his hips down against the sharp cut of Louis's hip. "Is this what you want?"

"Don't ask me," Louis says. Hisses it, teeth clenched around a sound as Zayn rubs against him. "I'm not gonna give you permission, fuck off."

It makes Zayn a little mad, how much he likes hearing Louis mouth off, spitting insults and urging him on the only way Louis can: full of pride and bravado, daring Zayn to do his worst. It makes him crazy because he knows now, this isn't his imagination playing tricks on him. This is Louis wanting it, _begging_ for it. Begging with his sharp words and thinned mouth as clearly as Liam had begged with wide eyes and panting obedience. With every struggle, every curse and desperate twist of his hips, he's asking Zayn to take him on, take him down, hold him under. A challenge Zayn answers with a sneer and a brutal, biting kiss.

But he can't keep it up, can't get by on adrenaline and a strangely vicious lust alone. It isn't how Zayn's made, to act without thinking, and he doesn't have enough experience for this, can't gauge how far he can push Louis and make it good, and how hard a push will break him. He's too much to Zayn, too precious to break no matter how much he wants to right now. And he does, wants to watch Louis crumble, wants to wreck him with his mouth and fingers and cock and leave him gasping out Zayn's name, his mouth swollen and purpled with use. It's a cyclone inside his chest, whirling everything together and leaving him hollow, all this _want_ rattling around like loose change behind his ribs.

"I can't," he says. Groans into Louis's mouth when Louis bites harder, indulging in another sucking kiss before pulling himself away. Louis tries to follow, half-rising to his elbows, and Zayn has to push him flat. "Louis, I can't. I don't know how to do this, I don't know how to be what you need."

"You're already what I need," Louis gasps out. He takes a second to look embarrassed by it before setting his face and forging on. Now that he's thrown it out there, hell if he won't follow it to the bottom. "It's good, Zayn, it's all good."

"I don't want to hurt you." Louis's expression makes him laugh even with the nerves jangling inside him, a small increment of pressure lifting from his chest, because this is familiar. He's spent three years laughing with Louis, usually at the expense of someone unlucky enough to fall victim to their pranks.

(Usually Liam, if he's honest. But he tries not to think about that because it makes the smothering feeling in his chest rise up again. One step at a time, he's taking this one crazy life-altering step at a time.)

"I don't want to hurt you by _accident_ ," he clarifies. "I don't want to fuck this up. This is important, Louis. You're important. I want to do it right."

The look Louis gives him is so sharp and suddenly knowing that Zayn has an urge to press a hand to his chest and make sure his heart's still there, that it hasn’t been cut out and laid bare. His confidence falters in the wake of it, the lapping silence.

"This isn't… I mean, this isn’t just right now for you, is it? Just a one-time thing? Cause I can't do that." He sits up, hands still circled around Louis's wrists but his grip gentled. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"For a guy who likes to brag about how he didn't flunk his A-Levels, you're really an idiot," Louis tells him. Zayn sticks his tongue out automatically and Louis laughs. "Do you have any idea just how many times I've tried to get in your pants? I'm not even talking over the last three years, that's uncountable, just even in the last three _months._ "

"You never said," Zayn says stupidly.

Louis gives him a look he probably deserves. He's been getting that look a lot lately. "Not the kind of thing you just walk up to your best mate and ask, is it? Especially when you're already with someone and you come as a packaged deal."

Zayn allows himself a moment to let that sink in, turn it over and examine it from every angle. It looks the same each way. "You want that?" he asks anyway, because it's not something he can afford to misinterpret. "Liam wants that? Like—for real, both of you?"

"Only if you think you can handle it." Louis's eyes are serious, but the corner of his mouth tugs up in a hint of a smirk. "I know the two of us together is a lot. You'll need to work on your stamina."

"How do you even know I'm interested in Liam? What if I only want you?"

Louis actually rolls his eyes at that. "Please. Every living human wants Liam. That's the least of my worries. Besides, I've seen your Liam-thirsty face."

Zayn releases Louis's wrists to throw his hands in the air. "Why does everyone keep saying that? I _don't have that face._ "

"Mate, you do. I know the face, I've looked in mirrors." Louis looks sympathetic. "If it helps, Liam is oblivious."

Zayn considers. "It helps a little," he decides. He shifts around a bit, trying to get comfortable. It's getting a little awkward, being sat on top of Louis now that nothing sexy is happening, but he's afraid to move and break the moment. It feels easy right now, talking about things that should terrify him, and he didn't realize until this moment how much he's missed feeling easy with Louis. It's the natural state of their relationship, but for the past few months Zayn has been steadily and gloriously fucking it up, and this calm, this shift of tension like electrons falling into their lowest valence feels like peace.

Louis, naturally, breaks Zayn's tranquil thoughts. "If there isn't going to be any more kissing then you need to move your bony bum. I think it's actually cutting through some nerves."

"You're really comfortable," Zayn says, wriggling around a bit more just to make Louis swear and push him off.

" _Christ_ , that's unnatural. Do you have extra bones in your arse or something? Now I'm going to be the one with bruises."

Zayn smirks, but his gaze falls to Louis's strong thighs, encased in black denim like it was poured over them and left to dry. "Is that a problem for you?" he asks, curious.

Louis's expression freezes. Zayn knows him well enough to know it's his thinking face, the one he wears when he hasn't decided yet how he feels and doesn't want to give anything away. Zayn sits up, resting his arms on his bent knees and watching Louis quietly. From the length of the silence, Zayn can tell Louis has heard the bigger question behind Zayn's words: _Are you in? Do you want this?_

_Do you want me?_

"It's not the worst thing I could imagine," Louis finally answers. Zayn's heart almost turns over in his chest, except he can see the glint in Louis's eyes, the faint upward tug of his mouth at the corners that lets him know Louis's teasing.

"You mean I'm not the last person in the world you'd shag?" Zayn asks.

"Not even bottom ten," Louis promises seriously, and Zayn laughs, kicks him weakly in the shin and rolls his eyes when Louis squawks and yells bloody murder.

Zayn's sort of terrified of the next step, as frightened as he is excited, but as Louis starts grabbing hair and makeup products off the counter and hurling them at him, Zayn comprehends how much he's missed this, how out of sorts he's been with the distance between them, and he knows that no matter what happens, this is something he can never live without.

 

*

 

Zayn had hoped that the months of doubt and anguish leading up to this, the shameful avoidance and the forced conversations, the awkward and pink-faced confessions they'd breathed out—he'd hoped that would take care of the hard part, so that this, taking their clothes off, would be easy.

"Christ, I think I'm going to need a drink. Or eight."

That had probably been a foolhardy dream.

"You're not getting drunk!" Liam exclaims, scandalized, swatting Louis's hands away from the mini-fridge. He turns an apologetic look on Zayn. "He's only nervous. It's not you. We really do want to do this, both of us. It's just pretty big."

"That's what you said last night," Louis quips, positively delighting in Liam's groan.

"You are absolutely the worst, anywhere, of all time," he says firmly.

"Please, enough with the glowing compliments, you don't want to make Zaynie feel like a lesser man."

Zayn's actually feeling like an extra man, right now. It's like he's stepped into the wrong movie, looked for a porno and somehow walked into a romantic comedy. He wonders if he could fade back now and slip away while they're bickering without being noticed, if they could just let this spark die before it catches flame. He thinks to try, but, like he can smell the scent of a desperate man, Liam abruptly turns on him.

"So, Louis said you had a plan."

 _Putting my dick in his mouth isn't much of a plan_ , Zayn thinks, but doesn't say. Instead, he nods, rubs his hands, licks his dry lips. Says, halting and slow, "Yeah, I—I thought. Like. The thing you did before? That night I was here, I mean." Liam nods faintly; Zayn's reassured by the jerky motion, the nervous bob of his throat as he swallows. "I was thinking, like, we could do that. Something like that? But all of us."

Liam frowns. "How is that going to work?"

"Same basic principle, I guess," Zayn shrugs. "You listen to Louis. Louis listens to me."

"Does that mean I listen to you too?" Liam asks.

Zayn's cautious, but Liam sounds okay with it. Eager, even. "Yeah, I guess that's how it would work. You listen to both of us."

"Okay." Liam nods, then frowns again. Zayn can see Louis getting restless, impatient for Liam to stop asking questions and move on to the sex portion of the evening. "But what if you tell me different things?"

"Then you listen to me," Louis says at once.

"We won't," Zayn promises. He reaches past Louis to brush Liam's cheek, feather a light touch down his jaw. "We wouldn't mess you about like that."

"Oh, why not?" Louis sulks. Zayn stares him down sharply.

"Because if you do, I'll leave," he says simply.

Louis makes a big show of twisting his face up into a scowl, folding his arms over his chest and looking the worst part of put out, but it's all for show.

A lot of what Louis does is for show. Zayn realized that a long time ago, but he's coming to appreciate it in a different way, now, the contrast between what Louis wants and what he says, what he thinks he needs to show the world. Louis would probably roll his eyes at the idea that he's got layers (walls), but he does, and where before Zayn knew that intellectually, could see the overlapping lines of all Louis's pieces, for the first time, slipping his hand under the hem of Louis's shirt to touch the hot, soft skin of his hip, Zayn can feel the papery edges of those layers where they come together. He wants to take each one between his fingertips and peel it gently back, stroke the bare, tender places it hides, one after the other until Louis's naked inside and out. He wants to take Louis apart, break him down to his elemental core and put him back together with Zayn's fingerprints on his heart, Liam's voice in his lungs, as fundamental to him as blood.

Zayn's fingers curve around the spur of Louis's hip, and Louis's breath catches. The thing is, Louis's going to _let_ him. He's not going to go down without a fight, without some posturing, but he _wants_ Zayn to take him apart. Needs Zayn to take him between his hands and put him in place. He trusts Zayn to do that and bring him back whole, and Zayn's trying not to think too hard about what that means and whether that trust is well-placed, because he doesn't want to have a nervous breakdown before everyone has a chance to come.

Maybe after. He hasn't written off the possibility of a post-coital meltdown.

"Play nice," Zayn says, giving Louis's side a little pinch. Louis screws his face up like he's ticklish but doesn't want to give Zayn the satisfaction of laughing.

"I don't play nice," he returns, voice steeped with mischievous amusement. "You'll have to make me."

"What I'm here for," Zayn agrees, hooking a leg behind Louis's knee and shoving him back by the shoulders, sending him toppling onto the bed. Zayn's on him faster than he can regain his bearings, straddling his lap, and Liam settles beside them, looking entertained and a bit confused and a lot turned on.

"You need a word," Zayn says, staring down at Louis. He's spread out beneath Zayn, trying not to look bothered, but his hair's a mess and he's already breathing a little faster.

"Stop?" Liam suggests, half-joking, but Zayn shakes his head.

"That's fine for you, Li, but I have a feeling this one—" He worms his hand a little higher up under Louis's shirt, making him twitch and yelp at the tickle, "—would quite like to yell _stop_ and have no one listen."

He's watching closely for it, so he sees the way Louis's eyes narrow, lashes falling a bit heavier, his next breath slightly ragged. His voice is rough when he says, "You have a feeling?"

"I have a feeling," Zayn repeats. "Pick a word, Lou."

"Deadpool," Louis says after a moment. Liam laughs, and Louis shrugs. "I was reading comics on the plane."

"Dork," Zayn says, sure they can both hear the ridiculous fondness in his voice. "Fine, that's fine. Can I kiss you now?"

"Are you sure there's nothing else you want to yammer on about? Because we only have to be up in another ten hours, I'm sure you could find—"

Zayn shuts him up with a kiss, hard and sharp to counteract the bright, tender feeling flooding his chest. He works his way into Louis's mouth with pulling bites and long slicks of tongue, licking into him like he can drink him down, like Louis's something he can consume and keep inside him.

Which, once he turns the thought over, he is, in a way. Zayn shudders a bit, thinking about having Louis on his lips, making his mouth slippery. His come on Zayn's mouth as Zayn kisses Liam, makes him lick out the taste. He kisses Louis harder, grinding down against him with sharp little pulses of his hips until Louis tears away to gasp, the air high and reedy in his throat.

"What are you thinking about?" Louis asks, voice gratifyingly strained.

"Sucking your dick, making Liam lick my mouth clean," Zayn answers honestly.

Someone makes a choked sound, and Zayn opens his eyes to see them both staring at him. "Jesus," Liam breathes out. His gaze is hungry and his hand hovers near his thigh. "Jesus Christ."

"Don't," Zayn snaps, without even really thinking about it, flicking his hand out to smack Liam's fingers away from where they're trying to sneak into his pants. "Help me with this one, get him undressed. I got plans." Liam blinks sluggishly. Zayn lifts a hand to his cheek, cups his face and brings him in for a sweet, tingling kiss. It's the first time they've ever kissed with intent—the first time since they were playing around all those years ago and accidentally brushed mouths and Zayn stupidly went and told a magazine about it—and it's so good Zayn can't think about it for too long or he'll be lost. "Be good for us and I might let you come."

"Jesus _Christ_." It's Louis this time, eyeing Zayn with a seasick mix of shock and respect.

Together, Liam and Zayn strip Louis of his t-shirt and trackies, his low-slung Topmans, stopping up his mouth with kisses every time he tries to protest or make a move toward one of them. When he's finally laid out naked on the bed, Zayn spends a good long time just staring; drinking in the little details he's never got from stolen glances on the bus or during wardrobe change. There are freckles he's never seen before, a small constellation of them low on Louis's ribs, just above a fresh scrape from where he fell off his skateboard that morning. Zayn hovers his fingers over the torn skin without touching, caught by the bright pink of it, the raised abraded lines.

"Klutz," Liam says softly as Zayn runs a careful fingertip over the mark. "Don’t know how you haven’t half killed yourself on that damn board yet."

"Don’t think you can half kill yourself," Louis says. "Think you just made that up."

"You'd manage somehow," Liam answers, his voice warm and painfully fond.

Against his own will, a vicious thought rises up in Zayn: _He was my friend first. He was mine, you could barely stand in the same room together._ He isn't sure which of them it's for.

Before he can stop himself, Zayn's pressing down against the scrape, dragging his thumb over the raw flesh and drawing a groan out of Louis that is mostly (but not entirely) pain. He feels bad about it instantly, because it was selfish and mean, done for the wrong reasons, but he doesn't say sorry; he bends down and apologizes instead with his mouth over the scratch, tonguing against the rough skin soft and wet until Louis's hand's in his hair, fisted tight enough to bring tears.

Zayn sucks at the mark long enough to make Louis whine, and then a little longer, before drawing back to lick lazy patterns up over the curve of Louis's ribs. The skin here is warm and clean from the shower, but it's hot enough and Louis's turned on enough that he's starting to smell of himself again: light, clean sweat and axe body wash, skin and heat and sex. Zayn can't stop pressing open-mouthed kisses all over, hungry for the taste of it, that smell, Louis _wanting_. He bites below his nipple just to hear the sound Louis will make, a satisfying little grunt before Liam must swallow it up in a kiss, loud and wet.

He feels Louis's body jolt under him when he reaches his nipple, just flicking his tongue out to catch the hard point of it, quick fluttering teases before he curls his mouth around. Louis's hand hasn't left Zayn's hair, and it's tight again, too tight; Zayn has to reach up and pry him off one finger at a time, nipping a warning when Louis struggles and thrilling at the strangled gasp that rings out above him.

"Liam, hold him down for me," Zayn says, pushing Louis's wrist blindly at Liam. He feels Liam's hand overlap his and lets go, but Louis keeps struggling, jerking and straining under their hands. "Tighter," Zayn tells him, bringing both hands up to pinch sharply at Louis's nipples, a command to lie still.

"Shh, you're fine," Liam murmurs soothingly to Louis, trying to calm him down. Zayn glances up; Louis's face is twisted up in a delicious mixture of pleasure and outrage, eyes narrowed and accusing. "Come on, you have to be still for me," Liam says, trying to push Louis's hands above his head.

"Too much," Louis complains, pitch rising into a whine when Zayn begins to suck at his other nipple, flirting with the edges of his teeth. "Stop, Liam, _no_."

Zayn feels Liam freeze where they're pressed up next to each other, Liam's thigh against Zayn's elbow. The energy that's been thrumming through him just cuts off, and he doesn’t have to look at Liam to know what he'll see. Doesn't want to see Liam's face like that, wide-eyed and stricken, no idea what to do and nothing to anchor himself to.

Louis's gone still as well, probably realized the effect he had a second late, but Zayn doesn't care. He doesn't even hesitate, sitting up and swinging out almost in one motion, open hand falling quick and sharp.

 _Crack_.

Louis and Liam's faces are twinned disbelief, their mouths open, eyes wide and fixed on Zayn. His hand still stings along his fingers and the soft pads at the top of his palm, and even as he's watching he can see the marks beginning to form on Louis's cheek, the stripes of skin where blood rushes up.

"You—you fucking tosser, did you really just—"

"Listen to me," Zayn says in a voice much calmer than he feels. He knows somehow that it's important to at least seem calm and confident, if only to ease the uncertain tremble of Liam's mouth, the brightness in Louis's eyes that is not yet quite threatening to spill over. "Listen to me. You don't tell him no. Do you understand?"

"Zayn," Liam says tentatively, but Zayn cuts him off with a quick shake of his head.

"You don't tell him no," Zayn repeats, voice hard, grabbing Louis's chin between his fingers. Louis winces a little at the force, but Zayn doesn't ease up. "You can tell me no—maybe I'll even listen—but not him. If you need to stop, you use your word. I'm serious." He gives Louis's head a little shake. "You tell him no again and I'm gone. Got it?"

Louis doesn't say anything, staring at Zayn. His dick's still hard and shiny, but that doesn't really indicate anything—fear can get you just as hard as desire. Zayn just has to go with his instincts and hope this thing hasn't been fucked up before it could begin.

"Okay?" he asks, not softly, but carefully. He relaxes his grip, sliding his hand up to cup Louis's reddened cheek. "Are you gonna be good for me?"

Louis wets his lips, takes a breath and lets it out in a slow shuddering sigh. His eyes close as he leans into Zayn's hand, a little desperate sound rising in his throat. "Yes," he whispers finally. His voice is cracked and throaty, like suede over the tender parts of Zayn's skin, making goose bumps rise up. "Yes, god, I'll be good."

"Good," Zayn says, drawing Louis's face in to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek, right where Zayn hit him. He seems to calm under the touch, the knot in his brow easing, breaths backing down from their panicky climb. Zayn makes sure he's steady before sitting back and turning his attention to Liam, who's still quiet beside them.

"All right?" Zayn asks, like he has a thousand or more times before. He leaves his hand on Louis's cheek, reaches out with the empty one for Liam. Slowly, telescoping his movement, fingers spread apart to show he's not hiding anything, isn't going to hurt him.

"Fine," Liam rasps, the lie catching in his throat. He smiles in a way that hurts, tears at something soft and yielding in Zayn's chest as he says quietly, "You promised you wouldn't mess me about."

"I know," Zayn tells him. He keeps his hand suspended between them, wiggles his fingers, asking. "We didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Louis is too. Louis, tell him you're sorry." Zayn pokes a finger into the soft swell of Louis's cheek, prodding a grudging but sincere apology from him. It makes Liam break out a small smile. "Can you forgive me?"

Liam nods as soon as the words are out, hesitating only a moment before reaching out to clasp Zayn's hand. Their fingers fold and twine; Zayn gives his hand a soft squeeze. "Of course," Liam says. "I'm not angry, I just…I just want to be good for you."

It's almost a whisper, eyes cast down and color creeping up his neck like he's embarrassed of it, his need for their approval, their praise. Like Zayn hasn't seen him laid out vulnerable under Louis's teeth, thanking him for every bite. It's charming. Zayn finds himself leaning in, whispering his mouth butterfly-delicate over Liam's chin, up the sharp angle of his jaw.

"You are good," Zayn tells him, fluttering kisses to his ear. "Want to be good for you, too; wanna make you feel good. Will you let me? Please?"

Liam's lashes flicker, lowering as he licks out over his full bottom lip. "How?" he asks, a bit breathless, but he's already turning his head to catch Zayn's mouth.

Zayn indulges in a long, lazy kiss, only breaking away when Louis's impatient noises become loud and pointed. "If you're gonna flop around over there, make yourself useful and get some lube out," Zayn directs at Louis over his shoulder, sharing a grin with Liam when Louis heaves a huge, dramatic sigh. To Liam he says, "You can start by taking your clothes off and letting me get my fingers inside you."

Neither of them needs further prompting then; Liam's shirt is up and his trousers are open so fast Zayn can't help a laugh. He helps peel the trousers and pants off, letting Liam tug Zayn's black t-shirt over his head when he insists, but pushing his hands away when he tries to move them lower. "Not yet," Zayn says, laying Liam out. "Let me do this first."

"Here, take this," Louis says, pressing the bottle of lube into Zayn's hand; he's trying to sound brusque but the words are too clipped and tight. Zayn gives him a salute with the bottle, thumbs the top up and trickles some over his finger as he kneels between Liam's parted thighs. Louis tries to crowd closer, reaching for Liam's knee, but Zayn elbows him back.

"No," he says firmly. "Mine right now. You wait your turn."

"You know, when I envisioned this whole thing I thought I'd be getting _more_ action, not less," Louis complains. He lies down next to Liam on his back, arms folded over his chest, a cross, almost sullen glower on his face.

"That was your mistake, wasn't it." Zayn turns his face into Liam's thigh as he rubs lube over the valley of his arse, his grin half lost against Liam's skin.

"Yeah," Louis replies, distracted, probably, by the whimper Liam lets out, the full-body shudder that goes through him as Zayn circles his finger and then pushes inside.

It's hot, and tight, and melting soft around his finger, everything Zayn dreamed it would be when he wanked himself off at night replaying the memory of Louis fingering Liam open. He opens Liam with slow, steady pressure, just the one finger sinking deeper and deeper until there's nowhere left to go, the web of his fingers pushed right up against Liam's arse. Zayn can't bring himself to move for a moment, just wiggles the tip of his finger carefully inside and listens to Liam's moans, his scattered pleas for more. When he finally pulls back, Liam's body clenches around his finger, clinging to him, and he has to pour on more lube before he can push inside again.

He works him gently open like that, slow thrusts and praise mumbled against the base of Liam's dick between little experimental swipes of his tongue. "So good, Liam, you feel so fucking good," Zayn tells him. "I could do this to you for hours, babe."

"What about me?" Louis asks, almost a whine that he tries to disguise with a sharp edge. "Am I just meant to lie here pulling my prick? I could do that alone."

"For right now, you're just gonna watch. Gonna watch me fuck him open, and you're gonna keep your hands where I can see them like a good boy."

"You can't dom us both at the same time," Louis says testily, annoyed at being ignored. Zayn just raises a brow at him.

"Can't I?"

Louis lifts his chin a centimetre, staring Zayn down. Zayn stills his finger in Liam to a hiss of protest, meeting Louis's gaze straight on. It seems to go on forever, Louis's challenging glare, Liam squirming on his finger, letting out short, aborted gasps, but in reality, it's probably only 10 or 15 seconds. Louis looks away first.

"Tyrant," he mutters, trying for a complaint, but Zayn can see the flicker of a smile pulling at his mouth. "Ego-tripping tyrant, I should've known you'd be like this."

"Game recognizes game," Zayn replies with a grin, slipping his finger out and reaching for the lube to slick up another. "Now shut up and kiss him for me while I work him open. Hands—"

"Where you can see them, yeah." Louis rolls his eyes, making Liam smile and then bending down to kiss it from his mouth.

Zayn watches them kiss as he works two slippery fingers inside of Liam, as transfixed as the first time, the movement of his fingers in Liam's arse almost secondary to the slick movements of their mouths together. Liam's breathing becomes labored as Zayn stretches him, soft pants and little _ahh ahh_ sounds spilling between their mouths, noises Louis laps up and chases to their source. It's gorgeous, they're gorgeous, made for each other, push and give, solute and solvent.

Zayn's dick is getting harder, more difficult to ignore. He needs to be inside someone, though a part of him doesn't want to stop this; wants to finger Liam open forever, watch him fall apart on his hand and Louis's tongue like he's never felt anything better. It's an effort to drag his thoughts together and pull away. Liam's muffled whine is magnetic, drawing him back to push his fingers in for a few more hard, jerky thrusts before he finally slips them free, wiping them clean before reaching into the pile of condoms Louis has helpfully spilled onto the bed.

"Louis," Zayn calls, mouth dry. Louis grunts an acknowledgement, but doesn't pull away from his snog with Liam until Zayn slaps him lightly across the arse. He jolts at the smack, drawing back at last and turning fever-bright eyes on Zayn. Zayn's throat tightens at the sight of his wet, red mouth, the needy clench of his empty hands. "On your back for me?"

He can't help the way he tilts up at the end in a question, but Louis just nods shortly and rolls over. He flops down, starfished next to Liam, legs flung wide and hands curled in fists. Liam presses up against Louis's side, equal parts neediness and reassurance.

It's on the tip of Zayn's tongue to order Louis to finger himself open, but something about the way they're pressed together, the nervousness that he expected to find in Liam but sees so clearly in Louis's face as well, stops him. He taps the square foil condom thoughtfully against his palm.

"Do you use condoms with each other?" Liam's blush is worth his own discomfort at having to ask the question.

The two of them exchange a cryptic look. "Sometimes," Louis says slowly. There's a hesitation to his words that Zayn can't immediately interpret. "We assumed, tonight—not that we don't trust you—"

"That's not what I asked," Zayn cuts him off. "Of _course_ I'm going to use—god, _really?_ Are we actually this dysfunctional?"

"This might not be the very best time to ask that," Liam says, looking pointedly between the two of them, naked, and then Zayn's dick, which is molded to his pajama bottoms so obscenely that he might as well not be wearing anything.

"This isn't dysfunctional," Louis protests, "I'd actually say this is _super-_ functional. This is optimized teamwork, right here, band cohesion at its finest—"

"Liam, put your hand over his mouth, would you? And then ride him while I get him ready."

"Okay," Liam returns dazedly, covering Louis's mouth with a wide palm. It doesn't actually make Louis shut up, but it at least reduces the volume of his rambling.

"Slowly," Zayn orders, as Liam swings around to throw a leg over Louis's hips. He spits in his free hand, then looks back at Zayn; at Zayn's nod he fists his hand around Louis's dick, spreading spit and slick before holding it in place and beginning to ease down.

It's such an amazing, mind-numbingly fantastic sight that Zayn loses track of himself for a bit, mesmerized by the way Louis's dick is slowly disappearing in Liam's arse, the little swivels of Liam's hips, the throaty noises that replace Louis's babbling. He doesn't realize he's stood there watching them with a hand under the waist of his pants until Liam's voice floats back, strained with effort and amusement. "Didn't you have a job to do?"

"Don't get cheeky," Zayn reprimands distractedly, reaching out to lightly pinch at Liam's side. Liam rumbles a pleased sound, arching into it, so Zayn gives him another, a fraction of the pressure Louis might use but still leaving the soft skin pink for a moment before it fades. "Don't let him come. Don't you come, either."

"Okay," Liam agrees. Louis makes a despairing sound under Liam's palm and glares daggers at Zayn.

Zayn pushes his pants down with his pajama bottoms and steps out of them, letting his dick spring free. Louis's eyes go right to it, and Zayn lets him look his fill while he fumbles the condom open, fingers still sticky with lube. He stretches it around the head of his cock and rolls it down, shuddering a little at the feel of his own hand, the good warm pressure where he's been aching, untouched, for so long.

He must make a sound, or Louis's change in attention is obvious, because when Zayn opens his eyes again Liam's twisted around to look at him. He's still riding Louis, slow and a little awkward with the angle but steady, following letters to a T. Zayn's well impressed, wants to scritch at Liam's scalp and pat his belly in praise.

"You're so fit," Liam breathes out. It's nothing Zayn hasn't heard a hundred times, even from Liam, but it warms him deep inside and, okay, it makes his dick twitch.

"Same," Zayn returns, kneeling down on the bed and grabbing the lube up once more. He leans in for a kiss as he slicks up his fingers, worrying Liam's lip between his teeth for the noises it draws out, the way it makes his stomach tighten and tremble. "Gorgeous together. Budge up a bit, can you? Stay on him, just, don't go down so far. Need a little room."

Liam rises up a bit on his knees, thighs straining to keep him up off Louis's lap but on his dick. Louis's hips rock up reflexively, trying to bury him deep again. Zayn hooks a hand over the spur of his hipbone and pushes him back down flat to the mattress, elbowing his thighs apart so he can slip his other hand between.

He knows Louis's done this before, though he doesn't know if he's done it with Liam; they had that drunken conversation long ago, a game of increasingly more explicit 'Never Have I Ever' that ended in mutual confessions of having Done Stuff with other blokes and probably being A Bit That Way. So Zayn doesn't need to tell Louis what to expect, or that he should relax, but when Louis clenches tightly around his fingertip with a hurt whimper Zayn presses a kiss to the inside of his knee and breathes warm encouragement into his skin.

Liam moves his hips a little faster, and Zayn makes use of the distraction to wiggle his finger deeper, rocking in with small thrusts until he's all the way inside. He spends longer opening Louis up with that one finger than he did with Liam, twists and searching for the right spot, that nice place that will make the tension run out of Louis's body, make his spine melt with pleasure. It takes a while—Zayn's hand is cramping a bit and his ego is slightly shaken by the time he finds it—but it's worth it for the way Louis cries out, still muffled by Liam's hand but so starkly turned on that it makes Zayn's toes curls.

After that it's easier, a second and then third finger following in short order, stretching him out until Zayn's confident his cock isn't going to break Louis. He might take a little longer than he needs to, might stall some, though he'll never admit it, the condom starting to get uncomfortable while he tries to rally his courage. It's just. This is gonna change things, isn't it? Things already have changed, of course, but this feels different. It's ridiculous, but as long as no one's touched him yet, Zayn feels as if he might be able to walk away from this, might be able, some day, to forget. He doesn't know how he'd ever forget the feeling of Liam's arse around his fingers or Louis's tongue between his teeth, but if he does this then any hope of a chance is gone. If he does this, it's real.

"Zayn." Liam has to say his name twice more before he looks up. Liam's face is kind, but strained. "Zayn. Are you going to—if you changed your mind it's okay, but I can't—I need to come soon."

"It's fucking well not okay if he's changed his mind." Louis's obviously fought his way free of Liam's hand on his mouth. His voice is so loud that Zayn's afraid people will hear in the next room. "Malik, stop being a pussy and put your dick in me this instant."

"Pushy bastard," Zayn complains, giving his wrist a sharp twist in payback before tugging his fingers free. "Didn't think I'd have you begging for me this soon."

"Dick. In. Me," Louis demands.

"Shut up." Zayn pours more lube on, because more lube is never a bad idea, kneeing Louis's thighs into a deeper stretch. He holds his cock with one hand and wraps his other arm around Liam's waist. "Liam, when I tell you, come all the way back down."

"Fuck," Liam groans. Zayn supposes that's good enough.

Zayn hooks his chin over Liam's shoulder so he can see Louis's face as he pushes inside. The corners of Louis's eyes tighten, the fine creases there deepening in a wince when the fat head of Zayn's cock finally pops in. Zayn gives him a second to adjust, then starts pushing again, forcing his way deeper inside. Louis's mouth opens on a silent gasp—pleasure or pain or some drugged mixture of the two, Zayn can't tell. He tightens his arm around Liam's stomach, turns his head to murmur, "Now, Liam," and helps pull him down hard on Louis as his own dick slides its way home.

They all still for a moment, the room heavy with groans and breathless gasps, but Zayn doesn't wait long before easing back and sliding in again. Fucking into Louis feels so amazing that it's hard to pace himself; Zayn tries to start slow, but soon he's pulling out nearly all the way to thrust back inside, sparks bursting behind his eyes every time he slam home. He gets both hands on Liam's hips and moves him to the rhythm he's set up, pulling Liam down hard every time his cock fills Louis, using Liam's body to fuck Louis from both ends.

Liam starts whimpering, high, broken noises too desperate for words. They make Zayn impossibly harder, but they also make him notice what’s missing; the lack of a very specific voice that has been a near-daily presence in Zayn's life for the last three years. Louis isn't making any sound at all.

Zayn pulls his face from the crook of Liam's neck and can't remember burying it there, can't remember when he looked away. Louis's face, when it comes into focus through the sweat blurring Zayn's eyelashes, confuses him. There's a flush high on his cheeks and washing down his neck, his face set, almost frozen in a preternatural peace like Liam's had been with Louis's hand on his throat, but his eyes—Zayn's arrested by the look in them. Under the glazed pleasure there's a flash of something near panic, an overwhelmed, wild cast that twists Zayn's stomach until he thinks he might be sick right there.

He realizes, much too late, that while Louis may want this, he doesn't know how to do it. He doesn't know how to surrender himself to that place Liam found so easily, fighting it as it tries to drag him under. _This_ is Zayn's job, to help Louis not only get there, but feel safe enough to embrace it, but Zayn let himself get lost in his own pleasure instead.

"Zayn," Liam gasps, barely enough breath for the words. Zayn's hands still, no longer moving Liam to his rhythm, just holding on. "Zayn, I want to come, am I allowed to come?"

He's looking closely, so he sees the flare of hurt in Louis's eyes, brief and tiny but there, definitely there. Zayn slows the motion of his hips, rocking to stop, Louis hot and delicious and maddeningly tight around him. Louis looks a question, one Liam echoes with a groan. Zayn shakes his head slowly, gaze steady on Louis.

"He's yours," Zayn says. "You decide if he gets to come or not. Ask Louis to come, Liam."

"Please, can I come?" Liam begs without hesitation.

Zayn can see the shift in Louis, though it takes a moment for him to come back, to pull himself from the edge he'd been walking, staring down at the long, terrifying drop. He tightens around Zayn, almost painfully, and then relaxes. His voice is still raw, but the wild panic has retreated from his eyes when he says, "No. Not yet."

"Please," Liam begs.

  
Louis brings a shaky hand up, and Zayn wonders if he's going to hit him before remembering that 'no asking' hadn't been a rule tonight. Louis wraps his hand around Liam's hard cock instead, giving it one long, slow pull from root to tip that makes Liam keen before fisting it firmly about the base.

"No," Louis says.

" _Please_ ," Liam moans, his hips picking up speed, forcing a surprised gasp out of Louis.

"No," Louis says, stronger now. "No, no, no," he chants, and it's like he finds himself more with every denial, the light and energy that make him _Louis_ flooding back into his face. He starts moving underneath their weight, tiny rocks of his hips until he growls impatiently. "Zayn, hold him for me."

Zayn's still got his hands on Liam's hips, and it's easy to lift him up a bit, hold him at an angle where Louis can drive up into him fast and hard. He's slowed his own thrusts into Louis, but he picks them up again now, biting his tongue against a groan as Louis pushes up into Liam and then back onto Zayn's dick, sure and needy and perfect. The force of his thrusts is driving noisy grunts out of Louis, and Liam's a mess in his arms, shaking and begging on an endless loop, his voice thick with tears,

"Louis please, I can't, oh god, I can't, I need to, PLEASE."

Louis shakes his head, hand still tight around the base of Liam's cock, which is so dark and full Zayn is almost worried for it. "Not yet," Louis pants. His eyes are closed, a look of concentration creasing his face, but as Zayn watches his eyes open and fix on Zayn. "No," he whispers, and then louder, chanting it to the same rhythm he's pounding into Liam, the same rhythm Zayn's fucking into him, "No, no, no, no, no, n—YES."

He should be, there was warning enough, but Zayn isn't prepared either physically or emotionally for the way Louis tightens impossibly around him and his expression shatters when he comes. It's like every one of those layers Zayn's learned through the years is peeled back at once, the pleasure and joy so naked Zayn almost wants to respectfully look away, but he doesn't, because he also doesn't want to miss a moment of this. Beautiful, Louis's fucking beautiful and he's _theirs_.

Just for now, just for this moment, he's theirs.

"Oh god oh fuck oh fuck, Louis, Z - oh FUCK!" and that must be Liam coming, not seconds later, even while Louis's still pulsing his hips weakly and shaking through his orgasm.

Zayn takes it in much the way you might register someone far away calling your name in the middle of a deafening football stadium. His hands clutch without permission at Liam's hips, holding him down steadily because he can't hold Louis, using the weight of Liam's body to keep Louis in place as he slams in again and again and again as fast as he can, giving himself over at last to the raw animal heat of it. Someone's whining and it might be him; might be any of them, Louis still panting and Liam sticky with come. Then Zayn can't hear anything, sound dropping out and vision crowding in grey as he falls into that inevitable moment where he knows he's going to come, feels it tear through him seconds later, every muscle in his body, it seems, clenching and tightening and pulsing in relief.

They fall into a sticky pile, the three of them, Liam half on top of Louis and Zayn bent awkwardly across his other side, kind of uncomfortable but too fucked-out to move. He only drags himself up when the condom starts to itch, and then only long enough to pull it off and chuck it in the bin before staggering back to the bed, finding an empty stretch to collapse on like all his strings have been cut.

"Well," Liam says at length. "That. Well."

"Fucked him proper speechless," Louis slurs. He brings his hand up shakily. "Good work, team. High five."

Zayn slaps his palm weakly to Louis's, pulling it back down to the bed and turning it into an excuse to hold hands. Louis doesn't seem to mind, fingers fitting in the valleys between Zayn's as naturally as they always have.

Eventually, Zayn gets his breath back, and he pulls himself to his feet and starts to search out his clothes. Liam watches him from the bed, eyes still slitted and drugged. It isn't until Zayn's got his pants and shirt on and is combing through the remaining pile of clothes for trousers that Liam makes a sound, blinking himself awake with what seems like a supreme effort of will.

"What are you doing?" he asks. His voice is still low and raspy, a delicious drag.

"Gettin dressed," Zayn says.

"But why?"

"Something I usually do before I go out in public spaces," Zayn says casually, as if he has no idea where this line of questioning might be headed. His heart, which had begun to resume its normal pace, picks up a little speed.

Liam pushes himself up to one elbow. He frowns at Zayn in the dark; it's hard to make out his expression, but Zayn can hear it in his voice. "Are you leaving?"

Zayn stops, then. He's picked out his trousers from the wreck of clothes, but he doesn't put them on, just holds them tightly until the denim makes a sound under his hands.

"Should I not?" he asks.

"No," Liam says. "Not unless you want to. Louis, should Zayn go?"

The curled up lump of Louis that Zayn can barely discern in the dark stirs a little when Liam pokes at it. "Zaaayn," Louis sighs. Which isn't actually an answer, but he follows it with a happy little snuffle.

"I need cuddling," Liam says, very seriously. "And Louis, too. It's a thing."

"I read about that," Zayn says.

"You shouldn't go," Liam tells him, much more softly this time. "Not yet."

"Yeah?" Zayn swallows. Stares down at his hands, the jeans twisted up between them. Slowly, deliberately lets them fall back to the floor. After that, it's easier to pull his shirt off again and crawl back into bed. "Yeah, okay. I won't go. Not just yet."


End file.
